Black Oak 1, page 8
“Taylor,” said Vivian softly.
He shook his head—I’m all right, please don’t fuss— and put a finger to one of the creases in his cheek.
Proctor couldn’t see his face; he didn’t have to.
“We were in Connecticut. The family home. It was late June. Celeste had just turned eighteen. Nineteen eighty-four, it was. She was to attend Wellesley that fall, and was going to travel a little with two of her friends before locking herself away behind ivy- covered walls. We had been joking about George Orwell and such, because of the year. She was afraid Big Brother would take over sooner or later. I was of the opinion he already had.
“I stood on the front porch and watched the three of them drive away. They were laughing, Mr. Proctor, waving out the windows and laughing. She called her mother every other night for the next two weeks. Every other night, Mr. Proctor, but I never saw her again.
“Two years later, my Iris passed away. A massive stroke in the middle of the night. I am convinced it was the pressure of not knowing. Whatever the reason, they’re both gone now. One, I have lost forever.
“I want the other one back.”
Blaine cupped his chin in his hand and stared at the sky. Proctor had a feeling he was looking at ghosts.
A minute passed; another.
He looked a question at Vivian, but she put a finger to her lips, shook her head, and gathered the breakfast dishes onto their tray. When Taz half rose, offering to help, she smiled him back into his seat and took everything back to the galley.
A soft chime sounded.
The jet shifted, banking slightly.
Vivian returned and stood behind her employer. “Mr. Blaine?” Her voice was soft; gentle. “Mr. Blaine, we’ll be landing soon. Fifteen minutes.” She paused. “Your seat, sir.”
His chest expanded and he stared at the ceiling, then reached down and pressed a button on the side of his chair. It swiveled around to face front, and Proctor heard it lock into place as the old man fastened his seat belt. After some minor fumbling, he and Taz did the same; Vivian sat across the aisle.
Thirteen years, he thought; how can he expect anyone to find her after thirteen years?
Vivian reached across the narrow aisle to touch his arm, get his attention. Keeping her voice low, she said, “There’s a guesthouse on the estate in Connecticut. I’ve lost count of how many file cabinets it has, and how many folders they hold.”
“Reports,” he guessed, his own voice low as well.
“Yes. State and local police, private investigators, psychics, mediums, tips from reward notices, forensic experts, the FBI—” She grinned at his startled look. “Mr. Blaine has friends in places you wouldn’t believe, Mr. Proctor.”
He glanced at the old man still staring out the window. “No,” he said. “Actually, I don’t think so.” He didn’t check on Taz. He suspected the kid was holding on for dear life, even though they were still a long way from the airport.
“She’s not dead,” Blaine said suddenly, forcefully. He turned his head toward Proctor; all the edges were hard. “She is not dead, and I will not die until I have found her.”
The pain was still there, this time ringed with anger. “She was taken, Mr. Proctor.”
Proctor cleared his throat carefully. “Mr. Blaine, kidnapping is—”
“I said nothing about a kidnapping!” Blaine snapped. “I have become a goddamn expert on kidnapping, and this wasn’t one. I said she was taken.”
For the first time since takeoff, Proctor heard the engines working, their pitch rising and falling as the plane lost altitude and angled for its approach.
“UFOs?” Taz blurted in disbelief. Proctor could have strangled him.
Blaine, however, only lifted a hand. “UFOs. Government conspiracies. International terrorists. International conspiracy leaders. I dismiss none of it, gentlemen. Everyone else does, but I do not.”
“You believe in Martians?” Taz asked incredulously.
Proctor snapped around to glare, but Taz was far too enthralled to pay attention.
The old man took a moment before he said: “I believe, Mr. Tazaretti, that only the supremely arrogant can dismiss out of hand the notion that we are, in this entire endless universe, alone.” Suddenly he chuckled. “Martians, however, are extremely unlikely.”
“Wow,” Taz whispered. “Holy sh—cow.”
Proctor sighed silently and faced front again. On top of Delany, this was too much. A guesthouse full of reports? From probably hundreds, maybe thousands, of experts? From the, can you believe it, FBI? Thirteen years and not one single clue?
And the old man doesn’t dismiss the possibility of alien abduction?
For some kind of explanation, any kind would do, he looked to Vivian, who kept her face carefully, deliberately, maddeningly neutral. Not a twitch anywhere—eyes, lips, or hands.
The chime sounded again, and he heard Taz shift. Great, he thought; now he shuts up.
“Here is the deal,” Blaine said.
Proctor didn’t want to look at him, because any sign of encouragement would be a huge mistake, but he did. He couldn’t avoid it.
“It’s very simple, Mr. Proctor, don’t look so apprehensive. You will allow me to hire Black Oak—which means you, sir—to find out what happened to my daughter. I will pay all your expenses, I will give you access to every one of my contacts as they become necessary, I will give you the run of my house, my offices wherever they may be, and my staff. I will give you free rein to do whatever you want, whatever it takes.
“In addition, I will pay you enough above and beyond so that you will never have to work on anything else in your life.”
He held out his hand. Proctor didn’t take it.
“You refuse?” Blaine said, neither surprised nor insulted.
“If I accept,” Proctor told him, “I will run my business as usual. I have clients, sir, who depend on me and my people. And frankly, this case is so old … the odds against the results you’re looking for are great.”
“Great,” Blaine echoed mockingly. “What you mean is, a hell of a hell of a hell of a hell of a long shot. Slim to none, and slim is out of the question.”
“Yes, sir, that is exactly what I mean.”
Blaine’s hand didn’t retreat.
“And you have to work,” he said thoughtfully. “Other cases, that is. My … my daughter will be just one among many.”
Proctor nodded. “Yes, I do have to work. I’d go nuts if I didn’t. Even with all those reports and contacts and whatever of yours, there’s going to be a lot of downtime. Time when I’ll be just twiddling my thumbs, as it were. I can’t live like that. Your own story tells me you can’t either. Which tells me you don’t like it, but you do understand.”
Blaine returned his gaze steadily.
For the first time, Proctor looked at the hand, then looked up. “But your daughter will not be just one case among many. None of my cases are, Mr. Blaine. None.”
A third chime.
Vivian whispered, “Almost down.”
Blaine finally looked away, but his hand did not move.
“There are hundreds of other agencies,” Proctor said.
“No,” Blaine said. “No, there are not.”
Taz moaned softly.
Blaine smiled. “Is that a comment on my pilot, or on the deal you’re not accepting?”
Proctor couldn’t help it; he smiled back. “On his mortality, I think.”
Blaine’s smile broadened; his grip was snug without testing.
“You won’t regret this, Ethan,” he said.
“It’s Proctor,” Proctor said. “Nobody calls me Ethan. And yeah, sure I’m going to regret this. You and I, we’re going to fight like cats and dogs.”
Blaine laughed. “Very good … Proctor. And you’re right. We will. Often.” He laughed again. “It keeps me young.”
Proctor said nothing. He was too busy trying to figure out what he had just done, why he had done it, and how he was going to explain it to Lana and Doc. By the time he gave up, the plane had taxied to a halt near a small hangar, and Taz was on his feet, bag in hand, ready to leave.
Vivian opened the forward hatch and gestured. “The stairs are ready. You can—” She looked out and frowned.
Proctor watched her uneasily as he unbuckled his seat belt.
He heard footsteps on metal, saw her reach out and say something to someone outside. When she turned around, her neutral expression had slipped just a little.
“Mr. Proctor,” she said. “There’s a policeman out here. He has a message for you.”
The mist wasn’t heavy, but it was enough to keep the windshield wipers moving slowly. Scraps of clouds hung high on the thickly wooded mountains.
Autumn colors were dulled, except when an infrequent break in the overcast let the sun touch part of a slope; then it was as if a torch had been lit.
Proctor drove without speaking.
ELEVEN
Taz didn’t mind. He didn’t feel much like talking himself. A word of direction once in a while, that was all. A glance at the map Vivian Chambers had handed him, a check of the exits along I-81 that would direct them into Kentucky … and a word now and then.
This wasn’t what he had signed on for.
Nobody died in the scams he looked into. A fist-fight now and then, maybe somebody blows his stack and goes after someone else with a pipe or a bat, there’s a lot of yelling, punches thrown, dancing around and taunting. A bruise, a black eye.
But nobody died.
This was absolutely not what he had signed on for. The cop who had met the plane was a state trooper, and how he had gotten the word or knew how to deliver it to Blaine, Taz didn’t know. Over the past couple of hours he had vacillated between desperately wanting to know how it was done, and equally desperately not wanting to know any such thing. It was like the Brooklyn neighborhood his cousin Danny lived in—things happened, good and not so good, and it was worth your life to ask who and how and why.
It happened. You accepted it.
You went on with your life.
All Proctor had said was, “Thank you, Officer,” thanked Blaine and the woman, and walked directly to the car waiting for them on the tarmac. Taz had followed silently with a last minute over-the-shoulder see-you-later wave to the old man in the hatchway. Taz hadn’t offered to drive because, from the look on Proctor’s face, he figured he would rather keep his head on his shoulders, where it belonged.
“Navigate,” was all his boss had said after that.
He did, while he watched the late-morning sun get sucked in by the clouds that thickened the farther west they drove.
When the mist finally began, he had to remind Proctor to turn on the wipers. When the mist wouldn’t let up, he had to remind Proctor not to drive so fast, there were slicks on the interstate, rooster-tail sprays from the eighteen-wheelers, and nuts who thought a damp road was as safe as a dry one.
Proctor had obeyed with a formal “I’ll remember, Taz,” and nothing more.
Finally, just as they passed a faded “Welcome to Kentucky” sign, Taz leaned his head back and said, “Well … shit,” to the ceiling.
Proctor grunted.
Five minutes later he said, “I liked him”; the best epitaph he could say.
“So did I, Taz,” Proctor said. “So did I.”
Thirty miles later they left the interstate for a narrow highway that hugged the east bank of a river that didn’t know the meaning of the word straight. Proctor was forced to slow down; it was clear he didn’t like it very much.
Finally Taz twisted around until he leaned against the door and looked at his boss. “I …” He sniffed, rubbed a hand across the back of his neck, and looked through the windshield. “The night I had to look at that picture.”
Proctor glanced over.
“I came up with the damnedest thing, you know?” He smiled to himself. “Space vampire. You believe it? A space vampire.” He inhaled slowly. “Lana, maybe it was Doc, reminded me I had forgotten something.” He looked at Proctor again. “Consider the source, they said.” He shrugged with one shoulder. “Delany was the source. That’s when I knew.”
Proctor switched on the headlamps. In some states, now, it was the law, whenever it rained. The mist in spots had become more like fog, and the beams turned pale and weak.
“The thing is,” he said. Paused. Rubbed his neck a second time because he knew he was putting it square on the block. “I mean, they said he was hit by a car, boss.” He shook his head and pointed at the road. “How? Here? What cars?”
“We’re not there yet,” Proctor said, but he tilted his head. Waiting.
“No offense, and I liked him, I already told you that, but what was he doing walking out there? Delany? On a highway? He only walked from the door to the bar. Unless it was for one of those godawful things he wanted to buy.” Encouraged that Proctor hadn’t snapped his head off, he straightened. “Now the source here is the state police, right? And I guess they got the word from the local police, or somebody local, from around where he was staying.”
He stopped when he saw a doe and her fawn on the side of the road. Wow, he said silently, turning around to watch them as long as he could; Wow.
“Taz,” Proctor prodded gently.
“Oh.” He faced front and prayed he wasn’t blushing. “Yeah. Sorry. It’s … I mean, that wasn’t any car I heard on the answering machine, Proctor.”
“Okay.”
“So who are they kidding?”
A car came at them in the other lane, slipping out of the mist, slipping away. It was the first vehicle Taz had seen since leaving the interstate.
“They don’t know about the tape,” Proctor said.
“Maybe.”
“They don’t.”
“But—”
“Taz.” Proctor smiled; it was quick, but it was a smile. “They said he had been hit by a car. They did not say they had pulled him out of the wreck of a roadside telephone booth. “You,” and he pointed, “are you jumping to conclusions.”
“Look,” Taz said, frustrated, “what I’m saying is—”
“What you’re saying is … Delany may have been murdered.”
He opened his mouth, closed it, and blinked. Jesus, he thought; I am, ain’t I?
He considered it for a while, wanting to make sure he had it all straight in his head. This was the first time he had been in the field, as Doc always put it, with the boss, and the one thing he didn’t want to do was look like an idiot.
He didn’t want Proctor to be sorry he was along. Then he said, “Hey, look.”
A sign on the right that looked as if it were being slowly eaten by trees:
CUMBERLAND MOTEL AND MUSEUM OF THE ODD.
5 MILES.
“You think maybe … ?”
He waved his hand sharply in dismissal. There was no need to answer. If Delany had gotten this far, he wouldn’t have passed up a place like that. No way in hell.
The car hummed over a bridge, and Taz looked down at the broad stream that fed into the river just beyond. The water moved swiftly, white where it rolled over submerged rocks. Rocky banks, and trees that hugged the water. He had never seen so damn many trees in his life. If anybody lived around here, you wouldn’t know until all the leaves had fallen.
He eased the window down with a button on the center console and listened to the snake-hiss of the tires, squinted at the blur of trees; it didn’t take him long to realize that the tires were the only thing he could hear. No traffic, horns, brakes, sidewalk music … nothing.
It spooked him into closing the window again.
They passed through a long unlit tunnel, and he had a childish urge to lean over and honk the horn.
He saw Proctor’s hand move then, a twitch for the horn instantly corrected, and he grinned.
Then he said, “Okay, so what are we going to do?”
What Proctor wanted to do was find the nearest bus or train station and send the kid home where he belonged.
What he wanted to do was get a neck in his hands, any neck, and squeeze.
What he wanted to do was pull over, get out, and find something to hit. Anything. If it hit back, so much the better.
Because he couldn’t, there was acid in his stomach, and tension in his arms and neck, and too many unanswered questions for him to think very clearly.
He drove on, grateful that Taz at least had the sense to hold his tongue. At the same time, he wished the kid would talk. Say something. Anything. Just to keep the car full of noise, so he wouldn’t keep listening to the last sound Delany made.
“There,” Taz said.
He looked over and saw the Cumberland Motel, at least five cabins that he could count before the site was gone. It didn’t look like much, but it was a place to check out. Taz was right; Delany wouldn’t have passed this up for the world.
“Have you been watching?” he finally asked.
Taz nodded. “Nothing.”
“I know.”
“Not even a dead flare, you know? I thought they always put down flares or something, to warn the traffic. Haven’t seen a telephone either.”
“Maybe we haven’t reached it yet.”
Although the clouds remained, the mist stopped and the sky brightened. There wasn’t much land between the highway and the river—the shoulder, a few yards of dirt and trees and bushes, and a fairly sharp drop to the water. On the other side, the slopes were easy, wooded, without much underbrush at all.
Eventually there were dirt roads marked with mailboxes; eventually there were clearings with houses near the back; eventually the slopes backed away.
Then Taz said with a grin, “Well, okay.”
On the left was a long, low, brick building with a single door in front, surrounded by a paved parking lot. A neon sign on the peaked roof announced the Kat Kave. A sign at the parking-lot entrance announced Flower Power as the main attraction. A wide, empty, brush-choked lot separated it from a twelve-unit, two- story motel.
“Flower Power?” Taz said.
Proctor shrugged. “Before your time.”
