Veronica Mars (2 page)

“But we promised we’d check in with each other at least once a day. We
promised
.” Bri’s voice was shriller than she’d meant for it to sound. They’d made a pact on the way down that no matter what they were up to, no matter how much fun they were having, they’d look out for one another. The dark, empty feeling in her gut yawned even wider. She opened her text window and typed a new message.

All they had to do was wait. Melanie was probably right—Hayley had lost track of time, just like they all had. She was somewhere out there having the time of her life. Still, when Leah and Melanie got up to go to breakfast, Bri
shook her head no, her phone clenched in her hand. She sat alone in the motel room, shivering but too tired to change her clothes. She texted Hayley again. And again.

“And what about this one?”

Veronica Mars sat in a hard plastic chair in the neurologist’s office, one leg crossed over the other, her motorcycle boot jogging up and down as she listened to her father’s exam. Keith Mars sat at a small table across from his doctor, watching as she flipped flash cards one by one with careful, deliberate movements.

“Wheelbarrow,” he said without hesitation. Dr. Subramanian didn’t nod or shake her head but, poker-faced, set the card down to her left.

The neurologist’s office was cool and dim, lit by the cozy glow of floor lamps instead of the usual harsh overhead fluorescents of most medical offices. It always felt like early evening in here. Veronica pretended to be interested in a four-month-old
Redbook
, her eyes skating over a feature titled “Twenty Hostess Gifts for Under Twenty Dollars.”

“And this?”

“Alligator.”

Veronica glanced at her father and the titanium cane that leaned against his leg. It had been two months since the car crash that almost killed him. Keith had been meeting with Deputy Jerry Sacks about corruption within the Sheriff’s
Department when a van had broadsided them—then doubled back to hit them once more. Sacks had died, and Keith escaped only because Logan Echolls managed to pull him from the car before it exploded.

The official story—or at least, the one Sheriff Dan Lamb had fed to the media—was that Sacks had been on the take from a local meth dealer named Danny Sweet, and the van had been sent to kill Sacks after the deputy allowed three of Sweet’s soldiers to get taken in on trafficking charges. It was crap, but the local news outlets didn’t seem inclined to look any deeper.

Veronica had been trying to get her father to talk about the crash since the night it happened, but Keith was maddeningly cagey about the details, saying it was “my case, not yours.” It had almost become a game between them. Every time she’d try to draw him out, guessing at who might have been behind the wheel—Lamb? Another deputy? Someone else entirely?—he’d casually bat her guess away. All he’d tell her was that the murderer had been after Sacks, not after him, and to let it go.

“Candle. Ring. Umbrella,” Keith said loudly. Veronica examined her father. The violent purple bruises that had blossomed across his body had faded. But the real injuries—the broken ribs, the cracked pelvis, the torn liver—were still mending. He’d suffered a fractured skull, a subdural hematoma, and a mild cerebral contusion, and for a few weeks after the accident his reaction times had been slow. In the first days after he’d stabilized, he’d had trouble with word retrieval, sometimes floundering for a few seconds before he could speak. Now he answered most of Dr. Subramanian’s
questions quickly and firmly. Word by word, Veronica saw him sit up straighter, like he was actually healing himself by getting the flash cards right.

“Very good, Mr. Mars.” The doctor’s Oxford-accented voice was clipped but pleased. She offered a rare smile, straightening the edges on her flash cards.

Veronica put down the magazine.

“So what’s the verdict, Doc? Is he good as new? Can we take him out for a test drive?”

Dr. Subramanian turned to give her a stern look over the tops of her wire-framed glasses. She wore her gray-streaked hair in a bun and sported a shade of lipstick Veronica had to believe was called No Nonsense. Veronica liked her.

“ ‘Good as new’ is not the phrase I’d use. But I’m pleased with his progress. How’s your reaction time, Mr. Mars?”

“Lightning fast,” Keith said, feigning a quick draw from his pocket.

“Any mood swings, strange behaviors, non sequiturs?” She turned toward Veronica.

“No more than usual.” Veronica smiled at her father.

“Hmm.” Dr. Subramanian looked down at the file folder in her hand. “How’s everything else healing up? It looks like you met with your internist earlier this week.”

“He says I’m not about to run any marathons, but I could probably sit quietly at a desk organizing paper clips. I’d like to get back to work as soon as possible,” Keith said, straightening his jacket. Every day since he’d gotten out of the hospital, he’d made a point of getting dressed in a crisp-pressed shirt and tie as if he were going to the office.

“Hmm.” The doctor slid open a manila envelope and
pulled out several grainy MRI images, which she pinned up to a light box. Then she snapped on the light and grabbed a laser pointer attached to a set of keys. “Well, the brain scans came back looking much improved. The swelling is almost completely gone, as you can see here …”

Relief blurred Veronica’s vision, the image of her father’s healing brain disappearing into a myopic smear. She dabbed surreptitiously at her eyes. It was only now that he was so definitively on the mend that she understood how terrified she’d been at the idea that her father could be taken from her that easily. He was all the family she had. Each morning she woke up with an ache in the pit of her stomach, waiting for things to get back to normal.

Because normal’s the watchword, isn’t it?
She smiled a little to herself. Nothing in her life had been normal since she’d come back to Neptune after nine long and quiet and
normal
years away. As a teenager she’d wanted only to get away, to flee the confines of a town run by the moneyed and the corrupt—to flee the scars of her youth. And she’d done it, for a while at least. She’d left, first to Stanford, and then to Columbia Law. The life she’d put together for herself had looked pretty good. Hole-in-the-wall Brooklyn apartment in spitting distance of Prospect Park; a job offer from Truman-Mann, where she’d have a chance to learn from some of the fiercest lawyers in New York. Cute, talented, even-keeled boyfriend named Piz.

But she’d left it all behind. It had taken only one call to pull her back to Neptune. When Logan, her high school boyfriend, had been wrongly accused of his ex-girlfriend’s murder, Veronica had dropped her entire life and rushed home to prove his innocence. She’d discovered the real murderer—and
reclaimed a part of her that she’d lost, the piece that knew she was meant to be a private investigator, not a lawyer.

And she’d also found Logan again. Now he was her … what?
New-old boyfriend? Lover? Skype buddy? Pen pal with benefits?
Whatever his title, his e-mails filled her inbox. Sometimes he sent five a day, short and quipping. Other times he sent longer, more serious ones. She kept her tone light when she replied. That’d always been her MO—a joke, a jab. A way to deflect from what she was really feeling. A way to keep the nonstop ache of missing him from becoming too painful to survive. And honestly, what was there to say that would come close to what she felt?

The moments they’d spent together before he’d shipped out on his latest naval tour had been the most peaceful she could remember—even with her anxiety about her dad. It’d been the first time she’d felt complete in a long time. And then, just like that, he was gone again.

“… so I would like you to give it maybe two more weeks, just to be extra sure. And then yes, as long as you commit to starting slow, you can start light duty at work.” Dr. Subramanian’s voice came floating back to her. “But, Ms. Mars, I’m putting you in charge of making sure he does not overextend himself. If he makes a sudden move toward anything too strenuous, you have my permission to send him home.”

“You hear that?” Veronica pointed at Keith. “Mars Investigations just got itself a brand-new low-paid intern. Copies, coffee, and mail, my friend.”

He clasped his hands together. “I’ve been training for this moment all my life.”

She forced a smile. Despite their banter, a vague sense
of unease tightened in Veronica’s chest. Of course she was relieved that her father would be able to get back to work soon—she knew how important his job was to him. Back when she was in high school, she’d worked at his private investigation firm, Mars Investigations. Officially, she’d been his receptionist. Unofficially, she’d taken all the cases he hadn’t had time for.

But now she had to wonder what it would be like when they had to go in to the office together. Would they run tape down the middle of the room à la
I Love Lucy
? Would they even be able to wedge another desk in there? She imagined a toy-size pink plastic desk next to his, a sticker reading
FISHER PRICE’S MY FIRST OFFICE FURNITURE
stuck to one corner. Her sitting with her knees to her chest, typing furiously on a pretend computer while her father looked fondly on.

It was ridiculous—they had worked together before, after all, but he was none too happy about her decision to forgo a lucrative career with a law firm for a life following philanderers with a zoom lens. For the past two months he’d been able to pretend she was there to help him in his convalescence, but more and more she sensed him rankle at the mention of her work. If she told him she’d be out late on a stakeout, or brought up something funny or strange she’d noticed in a case, he became quiet and looked away quickly. Like she’d just embarrassed herself and he was embarrassed too.

He couldn’t understand why she’d come back. Some days, she didn’t understand it either. Neptune was still the same glittering, dirty seaside town, like a tarnished bronze angel looking out over a graveyard. But the moment she’d started working Logan’s case, she’d felt her desire to investigate,
to discover the truth in a tangle of lies, pulling at her. Like an undertow.

A few minutes later they stepped out into the mild sunshine together. For a moment she watched him from the corner of her eye, noticing the way his mouth tightened as they went down the three steps to the parking lot. Keith Mars was a short, stocky man, mostly bald, his dark hair a low wreath around the sides of his head. His heavy jaw was usually in danger of five o’clock shadow by noon. He looked like a cop, she thought, smiling a little. It’d been eight years since he’d last worn the uniform, but he’d always look like a cop to her.

“How does it feel to be one step closer to prime fighting condition?”

He tapped the pavement ironically with his cane. “Getting there, one limping, minuscule step at a time.”

“Hey.” She nudged him gently. “Play your cards right and I’ll even let you clean the fish tank.”

Logan’s sleek midnight-blue BMW convertible stood out in a parking lot chock-f of midsize sedans. He’d insisted on loaning it to her during his deployment. “I’m going to be stuck on a giant tin can in the Persian Gulf for the next six months. What good’s it gonna do me?” She’d tried to protest—it cost more than she could expect to make in the next few years—but sliding into the car always gave her a little thrill. And it wasn’t just that the dashboard looked like that of a spaceship and the leather interior was soft as a cherub’s backside. A faint smell, warm and woodsy, lingered in the driver’s seat—the distant notes of Logan’s aftershave. And when she curled her fingers around the steering wheel she could almost feel his hands there, under hers.

You’re losing your edge, Mars
, she told herself as Keith
buckled in.
You don’t have the luxury of acting like some love-struck teenager anymore
.

Besides, they were already two and a half months in—only one hundred and twelve days to go, and Logan would be back.

Traffic was already a nightmare by the time Veronica dropped her dad off at home and headed back out toward Mars Investigations. Spring break had descended on Neptune in all its bacchanalian glory, and even though the worst of it choked the beaches and boardwalks, the party had spread inland, creeping up through the commercial districts and the historic downtown blocks. The drunk and disoriented glutted the bars, restaurants, and shops all over town, even at noon on a Monday. It’d already been going on for more than a week, and it wouldn’t slow up until mid-April—there were hundreds of colleges within driving distance, each with its own spring break dates.

Veronica glanced in her rearview mirror. Traffic stretched as far as she could see, motionless in the sun. The sidewalks were crawling with undergrads, shouting at their friends, lifting glass bottles in impromptu toasts. Apparently Neptune’s public consumption laws were being selectively enforced. But that was par for the course during the three-week spring break season—money talked in Neptune, and no one heard it louder or clearer than Sheriff Dan Lamb. He spent most of the year chasing “undesirables” (translation: anyone flirting with the poverty line) off the streets,
only to turn a blind eye to binge-drinking eighteen-year-olds descending en masse.

Someone laid on his horn. A girl with feather hair extensions leaned down into the gutter to vomit, then straightened up and kept walking as if nothing had happened. A cluster of bikini-clad girls on roller skates tripped laughing across the road while several boys stood on the sidewalk filming them with their cell phones. She sighed and fiddled with the radio dial. She’d let Keith man the stations on the way home and now Blue Öyster Cult blared from the speakers, the cowbell ringing loud and proud.
Five hundred stations on this thing and he went straight to 1976. There’s no help for some people
. She played idly with the controls, looking for something to pass the time.