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  The Monte Carlo was Detroit gold—big, bold, and bad. Big enough for a family of eight, it only had seats for five. The engine was raw, all power with no refinement. It had more horsepower than the chassis could handle. The car wallowed in the bends. It wavered on the straights. It was everything the Motor City promised and more. Terry loved it.

  “I’ll take it.”

  Fifteen minutes later, they were on I-80 heading toward Sacramento. In the trunk were two changes of clothes for each of them. On the backseat was a cooler full of cold sodas. Between the front seats were notes, names, addresses, and Terry’s smartphone. If everything went according to plan, they would rack up more than a thousand miles over the weekend and return with answers.

  “What’s our first stop? Alicia Hyams’s husband?” Oscar shouted over the engine and wind noise. The windows were open because the air-conditioning wasn’t powerful enough for the job—a fact Oscar had neglected to mention.

  Terry shook his head. “No. I tried to call him back last night to arrange a time and place to meet. The phone number has been disconnected.”

  “Do you think someone got to him?”

  “Yes—us. I think we brought up too many bad memories.”

  “Where to, then?”

  “I’ve never been to Oregon.”

  Once Sacramento had become a speck in the rearview mirror, the drive to Medford descended into the realms of the tedious. As they took turns driving, the gaps between towns stretched and there was little to occupy Terry’s mind. I-5 seemed an endless asphalt ribbon. He found himself looking forward to seeing the next exit sign for something to stimulate his mind. As Redding retreated into the south, his thoughts drifted to Oscar and the barrier he’d put up at the Gold Rush.

  “After Schreiber had gotten Holman off my back, you said you were helping me as a penance.”

  Oscar stiffened and his hands gripped the wheel until his knuckles shone white. Terry wondered if he should let the matter drop but decided to keep pressing.

  “You said you let someone down. Who was that?”

  Oscar fidgeted in his seat, adjusting his hands on the wheel. He kept his gaze fixed on the road and didn’t reply. Terry was going to press the matter further when Oscar finally spoke.

  “My son.” His voice dropped to a whisper. He still didn’t look at Terry. “You’re my penance for what I didn’t do for my son.”

  “What didn’t you do?”

  “Don’t ask any more questions, please. Just let me tell it, okay? I want to tell you, and I’m going to, but I need to do it my way.”

  “Sure.”

  It took Oscar another fifteen miles to compose what he wanted to say and in that time, Terry didn’t speak.

  “A few years back, Julia, my wife, and I were suffering the effects of a teenage son going through puberty. Daniel was doing the usual teenage stuff. Staying out late, being monosyllabic with his responses and disrespectful. Nothing out of the ordinary. Then as he turned sixteen, we noticed a quantum shift. It took us a few months before we realized it was drugs. Maybe if we’d been more honest with ourselves we’d have seen the signs earlier. Can you pass me a soda from the cooler?”

  “Sure.” Terry reached over and pulled out a Coke. He opened the can before handing it to Oscar. “There you go.”

  Oscar made eye contact. The sadness Terry saw shook him. He realized it was the same kind of sadness he was feeling for Sarah.

  “I guess I was an absent father,” Oscar said. “My welding firm was doing well, so, essentially, Julia raised Daniel. I don’t know if that had anything to do with it, but I do wonder. Anyway, we couldn’t ignore his drug habit once his health took a nosedive and things started disappearing around the house. We confronted him and told him what lay in store for him if he continued down the junkie road. Not surprisingly, he didn’t react the way we wanted. We had a massive fight.”

  Terry waited for more, but Oscar had stalled. He was tearing himself apart with his story, and Terry felt nothing but guilt for bringing the subject up. Oscar sniffed and wiped his tearless eyes before continuing.

  “Daniel ran away that night, and we haven’t seen him since. That was nearly four years ago.”

  “I’m sorry, Oscar.”

  “Obviously, in true locking the gate after the horse has bolted style, I sold the business to spend more time at home. But once Daniel had gone, Julia didn’t want me home. Within six months, we were separated and began divorce proceedings. Once I was on my own, I didn’t want to go back into welding, so I bought the Gold Rush. Do you want to know the stupid thing? I bought the Gold Rush because Daniel liked to play minigolf as a kid. I suppose I’m hoping he’ll walk in one day and want to play with his old dad. Isn’t that stupid?”

  “No, not really.”

  “Do you mind driving for a while?”

  Oscar eased the Monte Carlo onto the shoulder and they swapped places. For the rest of the drive, they didn’t speak. Arriving in Judith Stein’s hometown of Medford, they looked up the location of the Shady Oaks Nursing Home on Terry’s phone and followed the GPS directions. Terry pulled up opposite the address. The nursing home was still there but with a new name and a fresh lick of paint to hide the past. The home now had the fancier name of Creek View Assisted Living Facility.

  “Judith Stein left her mark,” Oscar said, pointing at the sign.

  “Hmm.”

  “So what do you want to do?” Oscar asked.

  “Go in.” Terry said.

  “And say what? Do you remember Judith Stein, the woman who brought you people to your knees?”

  Oscar made a good point, but the long drive had given Terry plenty of time to formulate a plan. “Can you act?”

  Terry made a U-turn and pulled into Creek View’s parking lot. As they entered the facility’s foyer, the pungent stink of industrial-strength air freshener slapped them across the face. Terry choked and glanced at Oscar. He wrinkled his nose in agreement. They were attended to immediately. A Joan Rivers type, small and painfully thin, with tight skin and sharp features, appeared from an office behind the reception desk. She looked so well preserved that she would probably take a thousand years to decompose.

  “Hi, I’m Marge Kenny. Welcome to the Creek View Assisted Living Facility. How may I help you?”

  Terry stepped forward. “Hi, my name is Blair Anthony. I’m interested in this facility as a possible home for my father.”

  “Would you like a tour?” She held out a hand to Terry.

  Marge’s hand was cold and fragile to the touch. “Yes, I would. Thanks,” Terry said.

  Offering her hand to Oscar, she asked, “And you are?”

  “Harry Johnson,” Terry replied for Oscar. Oscar smiled and nodded.

  “Pleased to meet you, Harry.” Marge handed them each a glossy brochure. “Here’s some literature with our rates and finance plans, but we can discuss that at the end of the tour.”

  Marge led the way into Creek View’s day room, a large lounge with a patio overlooking a small, well-tended garden. Residents populated about half of the room. They whiled away their lives playing board games, watching TV, or staring out the window. Marge smiled and offered a greeting to anyone who looked their way, while reciting some meaningless details about the facility. Terry made the pretense of listening. She didn’t dwell and led them into the garden, making sure she shut the French doors behind her.

  “I don’t like to ask these questions in front of the other residents. Can I ask a few questions about your father?”

  “Please do.”

  “What condition is your father in?” Her smile was pained as she showed her concern. “Does he have any special needs?”

  Terry hemmed and hawed. “Dad’s okay. He’s a little forgetful. He has high blood pressure and doesn’t see too well these days. Generally, he’s not the firecracker he used to be.”

  Marge smiled agreeably. “I understand. Shall we?”

  Marge moved the tour to the exercise room and gym. She made a big
play of the facility’s attention to the physical as well as the mental. The equipment looked almost new.

  She showed them a typical apartment. It didn’t look like much of an apartment to Terry, more like a college dorm room with a disability bathroom attached and without the colorful posters.

  Terry’s own mortality seeped into him like a winter chill. Was this his future? Would he end up in a ten-by-ten box, with the only luxury being a stainless-steel rail next to the toilet? He hoped not. If he ever needed the encouragement to make sure he was self-sufficient in his twilight years, this was it.

  Marge ushered them through the kitchen facilities, medical clinic, and pharmacy. She brought the well-practiced tour to a close back in the foyer.

  “Come into my office, won’t you?” They all sat. “Can I ask what brought you to Creek View?”

  “My father has reached a point in his life where he needs supervision, and I thought it would be good to bring him home.”

  “Your father is from Medford?” Marge said cocking her head.

  “No, but he’s an Oregon boy.”

  “You don’t sound like you’re from here.”

  Terry smiled a disarming smile. “I was born in Portland. My dad is American and my mum is English. They split. He came back and I stayed with my mum in England. But when Mum died a couple of years back, I came to the US to be close to Dad.”

  Terry’s slick answer was impressive, even to him.

  “And Harry, are you a relation?”

  “No, I’m a friend,” Oscar replied.

  “Harry’s an Oregon boy too, and when I said I was driving up to the Beaver State from California, he jumped at the chance to show me around. Isn’t that right, Harry?”

  “Sure is, Blair. Never miss the chance to come home.”

  “And your father is in California at the moment?”

  “Yes.”

  The story sounded convincing enough, and Marge launched into a pricing schedule that made Terry’s toes curl. No wonder they offered financing options. Oscar stopped her in her tracks.

  “I remember some trouble with a nursing home around here. It must be some years back. Something to do with abuse and withholding medication.”

  Marge tried to maintain a smile, but it cracked under some serious pressure. She got up, closed her office door, and leaned against it.

  “I won’t lie to you, this was the facility with the dark history. But let me assure you that none of the staff or management who worked here then work here now.”

  “Were the allegations true?” Terry asked.

  Marge returned to her desk, taking time to formulate her response. “I’m not sure whether everything alleged was true. You must understand, I wasn’t here then.”

  Terry nodded. “But that doesn’t answer my question. I’m thinking of placing my father here.”

  Marge pulled her chair closer to her desk and lowered her voice. “I believe there was an abuse of trust.”

  “That’s appalling,” Terry said.

  “Very sad,” Oscar agreed.

  “But nothing was ever proven.”

  “Why?” Terry asked.

  “The woman who made the allegations disappeared. About nine months later, they found her washed up on the beach in Cape Sebastian State Park. What she was doing out there, no one ever knew. Accident, some said. Others said suicide. I don’t think we’ll ever know. Either way, the police could never say one way or the other. She’d been in the water the whole time and she was pretty badly decomposed. So badly, her tongue was missing. Eaten out, they believe.”

  Marge’s words dissolved into a gurgle in Terry’s ears. He’d been ready to leap in with another probing question, but Judith Stein’s missing tongue silenced him. Alicia Hyams’s tongue had been cut out. What if the coroner had been wrong about Judith, and too presumptuous with his conclusion? With severe decomposition, it was understandable if the examiner had missed that her tongue had been cut out. He felt Oscar’s gaze burning into him, but he couldn’t look at his friend. The implications were too explosive.

  Terry inhaled when he and Oscar walked out of Marge’s facility. He was glad to breathe fresh air again and not the sickly, perfumed stench of recycled air breathed many, many times before. Marge called out her farewells. Striding across the parking lot, Oscar waved good-bye. Terry kept on walking, his hand tightening around the glossy brochures, his sweat bonding them to his flesh.

  Getting into the Monte Carlo, Oscar said, “Christ, Terry. Her tongue was missing. That’s too much of a coincidence.”

  “I’m afraid that the deaths of the women on Sarah’s list may be connected after all.”

  Medford’s city limits loomed. Terry’s foot was planted on the gas. He wanted out. The place was tainted. He felt that if he stayed too long, the tragedy that claimed Judith Stein would claim him too.

  “What do you want to do?” Oscar asked.

  “I want to know if Myda Perez’s tongue was cut out. The news stories didn’t go into any real details about her murder.”

  “It’s after four. We won’t get into Nevada until late tonight. Let’s get a room, get something to eat, and plan our next step.”

  They registered at a motel close to the California state border. Oscar took over the driving duties and found a steak house for an early dinner. They were ahead of the evening rush, but they caught the early-bird, senior-savings hour. Watching weak jaws and bad dentures chew tough steak reminded Terry of life at Creek View. His appetite had been poor to start with and it evaporated altogether as he thought again about Judith’s fate.

  “C’mon, Terry, snap out of it,” Oscar said. “I know what you’re thinking.”

  “Do you?”

  “You’re thinking that if Judith Stein and Alicia Hyams had their tongues cut out, then how long is it before we find Sarah in the same condition? Am I close?”

  “Too close. But what if I’m right?”

  “We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.”

  The following morning, they hit the road early with a freshly stocked ice chest on the Monte Carlo’s backseat. Terry wasn’t consumed with the sense of adventure he’d felt setting out the day before. He insisted on driving, wanting the distraction.

  The Chevy crossed the Nevada state line at midday and entered Carson City sometime after one. Terry gassed up the Monte, as he was coming to call it.

  “Where do you want to go first?” Oscar asked, looking up directions in Terry’s phone. “We can check out the hospital Myda worked at when she blew the whistle on that doctor. It’s not far.” Terry left the pump feeding the Chevy’s greedy belly and scoured the car for his notes. Myda Perez hadn’t been married. She had lived with her mother, also named Myda. None of the news articles mentioned an address, but one featured a picture of her, with her mother, standing on the porch of their home. The house number 3325 was clearly visible in the shot.

  “Let’s leave the hospital for the moment. Hand me the phone, I want to find Myda’s family,” Terry said.

  Terry pulled up a phone directory for Carson City and looked up Myda Perez. They were two M. Perez’s listed, but only one lived at 3325 North Saratoga Way. He punched the address into his phone and Oscar took the wheel. Twenty minutes later, Oscar made a right onto North Saratoga Way. It was a quiet street filled with fifties tract homes, many with recent additions or complete makeovers. He slowed to a crawl and they scanned for house numbers.

  “I see it,” Oscar announced and sped up.

  Oscar stopped the Monte. Terry compared the house against the newspaper photo. It was a perfect match.

  “Showtime,” Oscar said, opening his door.

  Terry followed Oscar across the road with his notes under his arm.

  Oscar rang the doorbell. Nothing happened. He glanced at Terry. Terry shrugged and Oscar tried the doorbell again.

  This time, movement came from inside.

  “Sounds hopeful,” Oscar remarked.

  It was several minutes before the door was ans
wered. The senior Myda Perez opened it as far as the security chain allowed.

  “Myda Perez?” he asked. “Can I ask you a few questions about your daughter?”

  That was enough to set the old woman off. She launched into a tirade of Spanish.

  “¿Puedo preguntarle acerca de su hija?” Oscar asked in a polite and calming tone. “¿Cómo fue que murió?”

  Oscar’s valiant attempt to ask how her daughter had died only inflamed the situation. Mrs. Perez slammed the door and the security chain came off. A moment later, the door flew open. She blasted them with explosive Spanish, shoving them back with her walker.

  Both Terry and Oscar took two steps back. They tried to calm the woman with disarming gestures, but nothing was going to placate her.

  “Mrs. Perez, we mean you no harm,” Terry pleaded.

  They were so focused on Myda’s distraught mother, they didn’t see their attacker. A blur body-slammed Oscar. He collided with Terry and both men crashed into the garage’s stucco wall, sending Terry’s notes flying.

  Their tackler was a powerfully built Hispanic man in his twenties. He towered over them. “Get the hell out of here. Leave this woman alone. Can’t you see she’s not well? Whatever you’re selling, she don’t want it.”

  Terry managed the beginning of an apology and an explanation before the tackler turned his attentions to Myda Perez. He countered her rapid-fire Spanish with a barrage of his own, continually switching from Spanish to English and back.

  “Abuelita Perez, it is okay. It’s cool.” The man gripped her walker and steered it toward the house. He cooed comforting words, telling her everything would be okay and he would take care of it.

  He guided her back inside and closed the door. Terry and Oscar tottered to their feet. Seeing them still there, the man’s face blackened.

  “You still here?” he demanded. “Didn’t I tell you scumbags that we’re not interested in what you’re selling?”

  “We’re not selling anything,” Terry managed, backing away.

  “Then what do you want?”

  “We wanted to find out how her daughter died,” Terry said. “Do you know what happened to Myda?”