Page 17 of Wicked Games

LaSalle’s voicemail just says to call him back, and I do, despite the time.

“LaSalle,” he answers, his voice gruff. I doubt he’s gotten much sleep in the past four months, less when Theo was missing and we hadn’t gotten the ransom demand yet.

“It’s Seth Lockwood. I’m sorry I missed your call.”

“Thanks for getting back to me. We found your duffel in a dumpster in north Ashfield. We’re checking it for prints, but I already know what we’ll find.”

“Really? Where?”

“In an alley behind Maplewood Avenue. Lots of immigrants in that area. We’re combing the buildings, knocking on doors, maybe somebody saw something, but you know how it is. They’re not going to be jumping up to offer any information. They just want to be left alone.”

“Yeah, I get it.” That they even found the bag in a city that size, not to mention the surrounding suburbs, is a miracle. That somebody saw something and would be willing to talk to a cop would be too much to hope for. “How’d you get a hold of it?”

“A kid tried to pawn it. The owner of the shop was a little suspicious and gave us a call. Nice leather, looked like it was worth a few bucks. The kid said he was dumpster diving and struck it rich. I gave him a twenty for his trouble.”

My Von Baer weekender was worth a lot more than that depending on how long it was in the trash. “Was it empty?”

“Yeah. The tracker was disabled the second that fucker ran away.”

I already knew that. The GPS the cops sewed inside the bag’s lining lasted less than five seconds. He knew exactly where it was and destroyed it a block away from the exchange site.

“Then we’re back to where we started.” I push back a hit of disappointment.

“Unless we find something near the dumpster, yeah. But I wanted to let you know.”

“Thanks. I appreciate it.”

“Yep.” LaSalle disconnects in a fit of coughing.

I settle on the couch with my tablet and beer hoping to catch Avery walking around her house. When she has the lights on, I have a clear view of half her living room and most of her kitchen, which sounds kind of creepy but that’s small-town living. No fences. Dogs coming and going as they please. Kids, too, if I stayed long enough. Maybe later this summer a family will move into the house next to Avery’s. It’s still empty, and I’m glad it is. I don’t think I could handle little kids playing in the backyard. I’d keep expecting Theo to ask if he could go outside too. I hope Heaven has a swing set. He sure loved those things.

That sends me into a crying jag, and when I finally get a hold of myself and dry my face, Avery’s house is still dark.

Worried about her, I fall asleep on the couch, a story about a man dying of gangrene clutched in my hands.

CHAPTER SIX

Avery

Iwrap my arms around myself and walk to the house. He doesn’t come after me, but he stands there. I can feel his gaze drilling into my back.

I wouldn’t have thought Seth could be that cruel, not after all he’s been through, but men can be, even if they don’t understand the damage they cause.

What’s funny is that he was way off the mark. Maybe Darren was annoyed with what little I made, but being in academics, he understood, and he’d tell me over and over again that giving me the freedom to write made him happy. I believe it did, right up until the day he didn’t love me anymore.

I didn’t believe it to justify my career choice or make myself feel better, but because that’s the kind of life we lived. Faculty dinners, parties held in my honor to congratulate me on being short-listed for an award. Darren wrote too, or, he still does—poetry, short stories, and flash fiction. As a creative writing professor at Minnesota State University, Ashfield, it’s expected he write and publish. He queried a proposal that was accepted by an agent, and for the past couple of years he’s been trying to write the next great American novel.

No, it wasn’t my writing that ruined our marriage. He wanted children and I couldn’t give him any.

That was my failure.

We started trying about five years ago, though I wouldn’t call it that. I was ambivalent about having kids, and I still am. It’s a take-it-or-leave-it kind of thing. If it had happened I would have been happy, but it didn’t and my life was still fulfilling. But Darren’s expectations turned every month into a dreadful waiting game to see if my period came, and when it would, he’d kiss me and say it didn’t matter.

But it did, and by the time he said he was leaving, I was glad.

In Bloomscene and on my blog I wrote about my tests and his tests and taking prenatal vitamins and eating well and exercising and getting enough sleep and staying stress-free and all the things doctors tell you to do in situations where they can’t tell you anything else. I’m healthy and so is Darren. Fate was just playing a mean trick on us.

That’s not to say Seth didn’t hurt me. Earning poverty wages doing something I love rather than getting a nine-to-five to make “real” money, a lot of writers deal with that kind of judgment. Applying for food stamps and living in crummy apartments. Taking the bus rather than owning a car. We live on little because we find joy and satisfaction in what we do and the sacrifice is worth it. We hope our words mean something to someone, and we keep going even if people call us lazy.