Infamous (21 page)

Now I was the one screaming
Holy shit
, and I kept screaming because in the next trailer over, I saw more naked yoga—this time being done by the rotund actor who was playing Dick Eversfield, the owner of the general store. I got an eyeful,
too, of someone cutting up what I guessed were lines of cocaine, in between a cell phone talker, a cell phone talker, and yet another cell phone talker.

I came out the other side, longing for the ability to take a shower.

There were still more rows of trailers, and as good as the idea of surrender seemed, it just wasn’t in my nature to give up.

There was a life at stake—whoever the woman was who’d witnessed Wayne’s murder—and all I could think was that, were it Melody or even A.J.’s Alison who was being targeted, I’d sure as hell want me to go above and beyond in order to protect them. Whoever this was, she was, at the very least, someone’s daughter. I knew what that was like, having had a daughter of my own.

So I went for it. Row three.

The trailers were getting smaller and shabbier and older, and the spiders and webs within the walls were now a given.

Most of these were occupied by two or sometimes three people, and sometimes I hit all of ’em on my pass through. But there was no sign of Charlotte, and it suddenly occurred to me that whomever she was delivering that tray to could well have been staying over in the motel. And I was just on the verge of turning around and making
those
rooms my next sweep when I saw it.

Charlotte’s unmistakable red hair.

I only caught a glimpse, but I did know this—she was not alone. She was also not doing naked yoga, but whatever she was doing, like naked yoga, there was very little of her clothing involved. And whoever she was doing it with was saying, loud and clear, “Oh, God, oh, baby …”

I peeked back in, and yes, that was, absolutely, Charlotte.

And yes, she was engaging in an intimate moment with a dark-haired man whose face I couldn’t see because his back was to me as he diligently worked to pin her to the wall.

I quickly popped back out, hating the fact that I was violating Charlotte’s privacy this way, and more than a little shocked by the level to which she seemed to be enjoying herself.

It didn’t make sense.

When I’d overheard her conversation with Rob, back in the catering tent, I’d believed that she’d been prepared to share intimacies with their suspect, in order to get closer to the man, but I’d also believed—completely—that she would hate every minute of it. And I would’ve sworn on my third-born son’s hero’s grave in Arlington National Cemetery that she was merely pretending to be tough as nails.

But what I’d just seen was an extremely enthusiastic woman who was not faking her enjoyment. On the contrary, she’d looked as if she were
exactly
where she wanted to be and …

Huh.

I closed my eyes so that I was just barely able to see through my eyelashes, and stepped back into that trailer and …

Bingo.

In the few seconds since I’d left, the pair had ricocheted off that wall and over to the little built-in bed, where Charlotte had assumed the position of power.

She was a good-looking woman, even just from the back like that, and I got no surprises this time as I moved just a smidge closer so I could look to see exactly who was locked there, between her lovely legs, before I popped away, giving them the privacy they deserved.

And yes, fellow romantics, you are correct. It was none other than our old friend Rob. Who, no doubt, had finally pulled his head out of his ass, mere moments after I left the catering tent.

Now, I don’t know for sure what had happened between
Nothing. Never mind
, and
Oh, God, oh, baby
 … except for the obvious—that he’d followed her back here.

Maybe they’d had a big, long conversation where they’d each confessed their undying love. Or maybe Rob opened the trailer door and went inside and found her crying and one thing led to another. Or maybe he went in there, and they both just looked at each other, and suddenly clothes were being removed.

It could happen.

Clearly,
some
thing had happened.

I walked back to find A.J., careful to avoid any additional collisions with any living creature, human or arachnid.

As glad as I was for my FBI friends, I was still aware that my above-and-beyond efforts to find Charlotte had yielded no positive results—at least as far as finding either Gene or the mysterious Loco, with whom the tall and ponytailed Killer of Wayne had spoken on the phone.

No doubt about it, I made a lousy caped crusader.

Despite my X-ray-comparable vision and built-in cloak of invisibility, I was back to square one.

I hadn’t felt this helpless and ineffective since the last time I was in Jubilation, when I was sorely afraid that, despite my best intentions, I wouldn’t be able to rescue Melody from the hell that she found herself in.

Although, back then, I was ready and willing to die trying.

Craig Lutz got really quiet.

“Yeah,” A.J. said into the cell phone his mother had forced on him, as he sat in the shade behind the Red Rock Saloon—on the same steps where he’d sat with Alison just that morning. The steps where he hadn’t kissed her. But he’d wanted to. “That’s kind of what I thought, too. Time to take a long, quiet vacation with the nice men in the white coats.”

“Fuck you,” Lutz said. “I didn’t say that. I’m just …” He stopped, exhaled hard. “A.J., man, I’m just a little thrown, that’s all. I mean,
Hi, how are you, Lutz? I’ve ignored your calls and emails for all this time, but I’m back on the planet, and I’m ten years sober
—ten freaking years, like you couldn’t’ve called me nine of ’em ago?”

“No,” A.J. said, answering honestly. “I’m sorry, but I couldn’t.”

Lutz was silent again. But then he said, “Fair enough. Who am I to dictate the way you should or shouldn’t’ve embraced your newfound sobriety? But still, fuck you twice. I could’ve helped you, dipshit. I haven’t exactly made a secret of the fact that I’m in the program, too. Shit, forget about me helping you—you could’ve helped
me
. I’m still scrambling my way to five years—same way I was five years ago. Although, this time? I’m the master of the steps. I’m doing them all. No screwing around.”

“That’s … good,” A.J. said.

Even after nearly twenty years, Lutz could still read him like a book. “Shit,” he said. “Really? Ten years and you haven’t gotten past … what? Step four?”

“There were … things,” A.J. tried to explain, “that I was trying to ignore. Things I still try to ignore.”

“So are you really sober, sir?” Lutz asked bluntly. And when he called an officer
sir
that way, with that particular tone, what he really meant was
asshole
. “Or are you just a super-dry drunk?”

“Hang on,” A.J. told him, just as tartly. “Let me ask the ghost of my long-dead great-grandfather what
he
thinks.”

Lutz’s laughter was so familiar. A.J. had to close his eyes against the sensation of time falling away. Suddenly, he was twenty-four years old again. An old man by army standards. An experienced officer, leading nineteen- and twenty-year-old troops into battle.

But he wasn’t experienced half enough for what he’d seen, what he’d done. Most of it with Lutz, two years his senior and a Special Ops NCO, by his side.

A.J. still didn’t know exactly what Lutz had been doing over there, what his top secret assignment was. All he knew was that the two men had found and identified each other as people who actually got shit done. And they’d become friends.

Lutz came and went—sometimes with his Navy SEAL teammates, sometimes by himself—but he’d nearly always been there when A.J. had needed him.

Nearly always.

“Ignoring all the bad shit doesn’t make it go away,” Lutz said now. “It festers until you start self-medicating again. Or seeing ghosts. Is he a scary ghost or a friendly one?”

“Friendly,” A.J. told him.

“Well, that’s good at least.”

A.J. had to laugh. Trust Lutz to find the bright side. But then he instantly turned it back to serious.

“You planning to tell her about Hor al-Hammar?” Lutz asked. “You know, the potential girlfriend—what’s her name. Alison?”

“No,” A.J. said. “Nope.”

“So what’s the big about not introducing her to the friendly ghost?” Lutz pointed out. “It’s not like you’re lying. You’re just withholding private information. If she asks you if you’ve seen this ghost, you can say yes. If she doesn’t ask … No harm, no foul.”

“It’s such a major thing to withhold,” A.J. said.

“And Hor al-Hammar isn’t?”

Good point.

“Odds are,” Lutz said, “Hor al-Hammar is haunting you
far more than your great-grampa ever could. From what you just told me, he was just filling my spot until you got your ass in gear and called me. He got you back in the habit of actually having a conversation, maybe asking for a little advice. Hey, you know what would really convince
me
that he was real? If he went into the future, just a few days, and found out the winning California SuperLotto numbers.”

“I don’t think he can time travel,” A.J. said.

“Have you asked him?” Lutz asked. “Because if we win a few hundred million dollars? Neither one of us will ever have a problem getting laid again. You can be batshit crazy with that kind of money, my friend. And you’ll still have three-ways, every night.”

“I don’t want three-ways,” A.J. said.

“And there’s the proof that you’re batshit crazy,” Lutz said, adding, “For what it’s worth, you don’t sound any
more
batshit crazy than you ever did before. I mean, yeah, if you’re hallucinating, that’s kinda weird. But the brain is a complicated organ. We only use, like, ten percent. Maybe you’ve started using more and you really can see old Grampa. Tell me this: Does he, like, tell you to do shit?”

“He told me to call you.”

“Well, all right. I like him already,” Lutz said.

“He wants me to tell Alison about him,” A.J. said, running his hand down his face as he remembered Jamie in Alison’s kitchen, singing that song from
Oklahoma!
A traveling theater troupe had come to Heaven and performed the show one weekend when A.J. was nine. He and Gramps had gone to see it every single night. Of course, it worked both ways. Gramps had gone to
Star Wars
with A.J. seven times in the months before he’d died.

“On that,” Lutz said, “he and I will have to agree to disagree. Hey, I’m kind of afraid to ask this, because the answer might be
dead
, but how’s the über-sexy Dr. Rose?”

“You know,” A.J. said, “I
still
hate it when you call her that.”

“So … not dead?”

“Very not dead,” A.J. said. Lutz’s own mother had died just before A.J. had met him and his father was on the man’s permanent persona non grata list. “She thought I should call you, too.”

“She wants me,” Lutz said. “Even after all these years.”

“Yeah, I don’t think so, Lutz.”

“Face the facts, bro,” Lutz said cheerfully, the same way he had when they’d talked about A.J.’s mother in the past. “She was a child when she had you. That plus the dominatrix thing that she’s got going on—that ice queen attitude.
I will chew you up and spit you out without even breaking stride
. I find her undeniably hot. You don’t have to agree. She’s your mother, that’s creepy, I know. But unless you’ve undergone an intense personality change, I happen to know that you still don’t even bother to look twice at a woman who can’t—somehow, in some way—kick your ass.” He paused. “You
do
still go for women, don’t you?”

A.J. laughed. “Uh, yeah.”

“Wait,” Lutz said. “That came out wrong. I didn’t mean for it to sound so much like I was saying,
I hope to Christ you’re not a homo
. Because that’s not what I meant. Remember Reilly, from my team? Big guy—bigger than me? Had that motorcycle that he’d fixed up that he used to ride all over Kuwait?”

“I remember Reilly,” A.J. said. “He never said much, but he was hard to miss.”

“Yeah, well, he’s in the program now, too,” Lutz said. “Three years—he’s doing great. Anyway, turns out he’s gay. He’s always been, you know. Gay. Now that he’s out, he actually talks. And smiles. He’s happy—happier. His partner died around five years ago, and he went into the tank, hit bottom, and bounced instead of splattered. He was with this guy for, like, sixteen years—even back in Iraq. I never knew—don’t ask, don’t tell, you know?”

“I’m not gay,” A.J. said.

“I’m just saying,” Lutz pointed out, “that it’s okay if you are. But all right. Alison’s not really Albert—not that it would
matter. But she’s really a woman, so your strategy—if you really feel like you have to tell her about old dead Grampa—should be to shag her, then tell her. You do it the other way around, you won’t get to the
shag her
part. She’ll be out the door. But if you shag her first, like for about a week before you break the news, she’ll have already bonded with you. She becomes
we
. And your problem—the fact that you’re seeing a ghost, if that’s really what you’re seeing—becomes her problem, too.”