Chapter Two

The following morning, Frank fielded phone calls from people across the country pleading with him to find their missing child. He would have loved to offer his services to every single one but one man can only do so much.

Jeffords had dropped in with the white cord used to garrote The Black Rail’s victims. After plopping the rope onto Frank’s desk, he overstayed his welcome by asking a dozen or so questions about Frank’s (what Jeffords called his sixth-sense) abilities. Strictly a black and white textbook nerd, Jeffords would never grasp the concept. An hour later, Frank ushered the man from his office claiming he had another appointment.

When Grace buzzed his line for the umpteenth time. Frank pushed the speaker button, his voice strained. "Let me guess, a weeping mother from Tibet whose child has wandered off into the mountains and she wants to know if I have expedition experience.”

"Wrong again, Sir Hillary." Grace snorted. "Quinn Brennan’s wife, Emily, is on the line."

Frank’s heart stuttered to a slow beat. Her face loomed before him. Lovely Emily, a kind, gentle woman whose entire life was upended when Quinn died. Guilt surfaced. How long had it been since he’d seen her, spoken to her? He’d stayed in touch after the funeral for several months, tried to bring comfort to her and the kids, but every time he saw them, painful memories of his partner surfaced. He couldn’t get the image of the man’s bloodless face out of his mind. He’d walked out of her kitchen that last day, knowing he might not survive if he kept returning . . . knowing it would be a long time before he returned.

"Thanks, Grace. Go ahead and put her through.” He picked up the receiver, surprised his hand shook. "Hello, Emily."

"Frank, how are you?"

He offered a sardonic laugh. "Today, or in general?"

She returned the laughter. "In general." He pictured her engaging smile, one of her finest attributes. Maybe she didn’t hate him after all. She should after he abandoned her and the kids without as much as a ‘see you soon.’

"Today, I’m hanging in there. In general . . . a half-breath away from dead.”

"Ah, there’s the Frank I remember. Do you have a minute?”

“I always have time for you, Emily.” He pulled the pint of whiskey from the top drawer of his desk, scratching the idea of adding coffee to the cup. “But first, tell me how you are these days?”

"Putting one foot in front of the other. It’s inbred, you know. Cop’s wives are crusty bitches and stronger than church pillars." A long pause lapsed before she added, "You ever find that special someone, Frank?”

"No, not yet." He blew a regretful sigh. "Since I left the force to become a private investigator, I’m busier than a tick on a hound sucking blood.”

"There’s the Frank I remember, the sacrificial lamb chasing down drug lords, scouring dark alleys for thugs and murderers."

"Dark, dark alleys and nefarious thugs and kidnappers."

"How about the dreams?" Her voice dropped an octave or two. "Still communing with the dead?"

He didn’t want to tell her he’d dreamed of the bank robbery for the last seven nights and knew she’d call soon. In a misty fog, Quinn had risen from the grave, his brow furrowed, his arms outstretched, and his eyes misty. Whatever the man felt compelled to tell him blew away on a cold wind between this world and the next. Quinn’s lips moved but no words came forth, the usual modus operandi. Frank knew then it was just a matter of time before he’d hear from Emily or one of Quinn’s kids.

"Frank?"

"Yes, I’m here, Emily, sorry. You asked me if I still have the dreams. The answer is yes."

When she said, "I’m sorry," he knew she meant it.

He detected a desperate inflection in her voice. "What is it, Emily, what’s wrong?"

"I didn’t know who to turn to. I know you don’t want to see me because it brings back bad memories, but . . . ."

"Spill it, darlin’."

"It’s Rand."

"Rand? He must be about what, twenty-one?"

Her voice trembled. "Twenty-two and Marlow, twenty."

Twenty-two and twenty. Rand was eight years younger than him and Marlow ten. Shit, five years had flown by before he’d realized it. "Okay, so what about Rand, tell me?"

"He’s gone."

"Gone, you mean missing?"

"He left the house three months ago, dropped out of college, and won’t answer my calls. Won’t answer Marlow’s either, and you know how close they are."

"Wait, are you telling me you haven’t heard from him in three months?"

"Not a whisper. I’ve alerted the police and all the hospitals, the clinics, left my number in case . . . ."

"What did the police say?"

"They said he’s an adult." A hysterical laugh transcended the line. "There’s nothing they can do, not until something happens. Oh, God, I don’t allow myself to think about that."

"Why did he leave? Did you have a fight?"

"No more than usual. He’s always struggled with his gender identity, more so since Quinn died. I have a feeling he’s into something bad."

Quinn had loved his son, accepted his gay lifestyle unconditionally, as he had accepted Frank’s.” The man didn’t judge others by their sexual slant, the color of their skin, their religious beliefs or anything else, but rather looked to their ideals and core values. Frank knew Rand was gay the moment he met the boy, thus another reason he’d fled after Quinn died.

Rand had at some time discarded the familiar expression of brotherly adoration when he looked at Frank. From that day on, the kid had watched him with smoldering eyes that held secret fantasies and sinful delights. Worse, Frank wasn’t immune to the fantasies himself. The tremors of unrequited passion ran hot through Frank’s blood around Quinn’s son. The feelings shocked him, left him aching with raw hunger.

Rand favored his mother with his midnight hair, carved-in-stone cheekbones and eyes the color of moss-covered everglades. His shoulders were generous, every muscle and ridge well sculpted, his waist narrow and his ass provocatively firm. He stood in marked contrast to Frank’s six-foot one, muscular body, unruly long brown hair and piercing blue eyes.

Neither Quinn nor Emily would have objected to the match, had on more than one occasion, asked Frank to take their floundering son under his wing. It wasn’t his wing he wanted to offer the kid, but rather, another part of his traitorous body. Thus, when his father died, Frank got the hell out of Dodge.

"Frank?"

"Yes, I’m here, Emily. You said you thought Rand was into something bad. Do you mean drugs?"

"His daily consumption of pot became the culprit of many of our arguments, but I suspect it’s more than that now."

"The hard stuff, street drugs?" Frank tapped a pencil on the desk through another prolonged silence. "So you think he’s into coke, smack or what?"

"I don’t know what to think. Marlow said Rand works at a billiard hall in the slums, and you know the streets better than anyone on the force." She rambled, her words punctuated by intermittent sniffles. "I have no idea where he lives or who he hangs with now." Her voice broke. "Please, Frank, will you find him and bring him home? If you won’t do it for me, do it for Quinn. He loved you so."

"He loved you too, Emily, more than you’ll ever know." A fleeting image of Quinn’s face rose before him again. "About Rand, maybe he doesn’t want to be found, maybe he just needs time to sort everything out."

"No." Her tone lacked hesitation. "He’s in some kind of trouble. I feel it in my bones and I don’t think he can see his way out."

"All right." He struggled to keep his voice level. "I need something more than ‘he works at some billiard hall in the slums’."

"Tell me what you need. I’ll do anything to help you bring my son home."

"I have no idea what he looks like now. I’ll need a current picture and . . . ."

"And what, tell me what you need?"

"A piece of his clothing, a hat, a T-shirt."

"Oh, God!” A sob tore from her throat. “You think he might be dead, don’t you? You’re going to channel him, meditate or whatever it is you do when you’re hired to find dead children, aren’t you?"

"Emily, I don’t think he’s dead, and for the record, I look for missing children. It’s the way I work. While meditating, I hold a piece of the person’s clothing. Sometimes this opens things up and a picture comes through.”

“A picture? You’re scaring me, Frank.”

“Or a sign, all right. I didn’t mean to insinuate I see the image of a dead person." Although, many time that’s exactly what he saw.

"Okay, I’m sorry. I’m hitting the panic button here, but I can’t lose him, too." Low-voiced, she added. “This bitchy woman stronger than church pillars won’t live through it this time."

When I find that little son-of-a-bitch, he’s going to pay for putting her through this. "Okay, calm down, Emily. How about I stop over tonight, save you the trouble of driving through all the downtown traffic?"

"You mean it? Oh, I feel better already. Say eight o’clock?"

"Eight, yes, I’ll see you then. In the meantime, find the most recent picture you have of Rand, and then sit down and have a drink. We’ll talk more tonight."

"Thanks, Frank."

“You’re welcome.”

“Frank?”

“I’m still here.”

“I’ve missed you.”

“I’ve missed you too, Emily. See you tonight.”

After she hung up, an arctic wind pedaled through his bones. He looked at the piece of white cord on his desk, the one Jeffords dropped off that morning. Tied with a full Carrick bend, or what the police often called a sailor’s knot, whoever tied it knew their business. The Carrick was the nearest thing to a perfect bend. It didn’t slip easily, not even if the rope or cording got wet.

Frank picked up the large envelope Jeffords left underneath the cording. He opened it, pulled out a stack of pictures and closed his eyes. He knew what he’d find when he opened them―seven victims tied with the same cord and the same knot stretched tight across their throats. Jeffords said every one of the victims was of Caucasian descent, young, with dark hair. Their names appeared at the top of the glossy stills, numbered in order of first kill to last. Frank steeled himself, glanced at the first one, and took his sweet time flipping through the rest. His stomach churned and ripe anger bubbled up his chest. They were all so young, had their entire lives before them until they happened to meet up with The Black Rail.

Small red welts and bruises appeared along their torsos and they had all been handcuffed. The maniacal mad man had used a stun gun first and then secured the handcuffs before torturing them. After he got his rocks off, he had choked them to death. With a helpless sigh, Frank placed the pictures back in the envelope and made a vow. After he found Rand, he would find The Black Rail and kill the son of a bitch.