Wild Things

But it was February—in Chicago—and I quickly rejected that idea, climbed inside, and turned up the heater.

Jeff arrived a few minutes later, parked his car at the edge of the parking lot, and climbed in. “This is a damn fine automobile,” he said.

“Tell me about it.” I gestured toward the forty-four-ounce Mountain Dew in the cup holder, and the sticks of beef jerky I’d wedged between his cup and mine.

“What’s this?”

“Provisions. And a thank-you gift. That’s what gamers use for fuel, right?”

He looked at me with a mix of pity and adoration and my heart melted a little. “That was really nice, Merit.” He opened a stick of jerky, dug into it. “But don’t tell Fallon. She’s not a fan of processed food.”

“It’s just between us,” I promised, and we headed south.

• • •

The city lined up along the edge of Lake Michigan, with industrial ports and brick smokestacks reaching into the sky on the lake side, and dilapidated buildings on the other.

The main street was flat-out depressing, half the shops—still marked by their antique cursive signs—boarded up and closed. When manufacturing moved out, it took time for anything else to move back in. The Midwest and Rust Belt had dozens if not hundreds of towns proving that very point.

I found a cluster of new businesses close to the freeway, and pulled into the lot of a store that carried animal feed and farming supplies. You didn’t have to go very far outside Chicago to reach farmland.

“Need a snack?” Jeff asked with amusement.

“Need recon,” I said, pulling the photograph of Tate from my pocket. “We know he’s in the city. We don’t know much more than that.”

He gestured toward the photograph. “This is your big plan? You’re going to wander from store to store asking if anyone has seen him?”

In fairness, it sounded much more logical in my head. “He was the mayor of Chicago, and he’s looking for redemption. I don’t think he’s going to lay low. I think he’s going to get out there. Mix it up. Mingle.”

“He can’t still look like that,” Jeff said, pointing at the photo. “He’d be recognized. We’re not that far from the city.”

“I didn’t think of that,” I admitted. But we had to start somewhere. “I’ll try this. In the meantime, work some of your computer magic and see what you can find in the ether. I’ll be right back.

“No backup?”

“We don’t want to scare them,” I said. “If I go in alone, I’m asking questions. If both of us go in, we’re ganging up.”

When he finally nodded his agreement, I walked inside, a bell ringing on the door to signal my entry. The store smelled of leather and grains, and I lingered in the doorway for a moment, enjoying the fragrance. It smelled earnest, like hard work and chores.

The store was empty of people at this late hour, and a man, probably in his forties, stood behind the counter in a collared shirt and pants and a bright green vest with a name tag that read CARL.

He looked up at me, smiled. “Evening. Help you?”

“Yeah, actually, although I have kind of a strange request.” I walked toward the checkout line and pulled the photograph from my pocket. “I’m looking for this man.”

I held out the picture. He glanced at it for a moment, then back at me.

“Sorry. He doesn’t look familiar.” His eyes narrowed with interest. “Did he do something wrong?”

“No.” I frowned, realizing I hadn’t come up with a cover story, and opted for the truth. “He’s a friend of the family who disappeared. We’re trying to find him.”

As if sympathetic, he looked at the photograph again, shook his head. “Sorry. But good luck.”

I thanked him, tucked the photograph away again, and climbed back into the car. Jeff had pulled out that slick little square of glass, and he was tapping the screen busily.

“Let me guess—you’ve already found his address and favorite Chinese place?”

“No. But I just increased my mage to level forty-seven.”

“Gaming has a lot of math, doesn’t it?”

“You have no idea.” He put the screen away again. “I found nothing, but of course I’m using mobile equipment, which isn’t quite as nice as the box I had at home when you called me and I could have looked it up.”

“You rehearsed that speech for a while, didn’t you?”

Jeff grinned. “I take it you weren’t successful, either?”

“Not even a little. He didn’t recognize the picture.”

The next guy and the girl that followed also couldn’t give me anything. In the end, it was the fourth stop and floppy-haired shifter who got it done.

“Let me take this one,” he said, climbing out of the car with me as we walked inside a twenty-four-hour diner that had seen better days—and cleaner linoleum.

He scoped out the waitstaff, spied a pretty, delicate-looking blonde behind the cash register, and walked up. Her hair was pulled into a dank ponytail, and there were bags of exhaustion beneath her eyes.

“Hey,” he said. “I’m sorry to interrupt your night, but could I maybe ask you for a favor?” His eyes were bright and blue, his smile completely guileless. I’d have done a favor for him. As long as it wouldn’t have gotten me in trouble with Fallon.

“A favor?” she asked, blinking. “From me?”

“Yeah.” Jeff winced, all apologies. He held out the photograph he’d borrowed from me in the car. “We’re trying to find this man. I don’t suppose you’ve seen him?”

Her eyes widened. “Father Paul? Is he in some kind of trouble?”

So Tate hadn’t just shed his identity; he’d changed his name and apparently taken on religion. Although I guess that wasn’t hard to believe. He was an angel, after all.

Jeff smiled almost foolishly. “Oh, not at all. We’ve actually just been trying to find him. We heard him speak—and really liked what he had to say. But we haven’t been able to find his Web site or anything.”

She laughed. “Father Paul’s not one for technology.” She checked her watch. “You can probably find him at the food pantry. He works late nights sometimes, helping stock shelves.”

“And that’s near here?” Jeff asked with a beaming smile.

“Half a mile up the road. And tell him Lynnette said hello.”

Jeff smiled. “We absolutely will. Thanks a lot for the help.”

Lynnette waved a little, and we walked outside again.

“You were tremendous,” I said, stealing a glance at him. “And a damn good actor.”

“You grow up around sups,” Jeff cryptically said, “you learn to finesse the truth.”

• • •

According to the gospel of Lynnette, Seth Tate, former mayor of Chicago, was now Father Paul, and he worked at a food pantry in Portville, Indiana. Considering the havoc he’d wreaked in Chicago, I wasn’t sure if it was incredibly ironic or perfectly appropriate that he’d apparently dedicated his life to service.

The food pantry was unmistakable, several large steel buildings up the road, a pretty green, leafed logo painted along one side of the largest. I parked Moneypenny in a visitor’s spot and glanced at Jeff.

“You ready?”

He nodded. “Let’s do this.”

We walked inside and found a pretty woman with curly hair at the front desk, typing on a computer keyboard. She looked up and smiled when we entered. “Hello. Can I help you?”

“Hi,” Jeff said. “Sorry to bother you, but we’re looking for Father Paul. I understand I can find him here?”

The phone rang, and she picked it up with one hand, pointed down the hallway with the other. “He’s in the warehouse. Down the hall, to the left.”

“Thank you,” Jeff said with a smile, punctuating his appreciation with a chipper tap on the counter as we walked down the hallway. It was a clean and happy place, the walls covered in children’s drawings and signs for previous holiday canned-food drives. The hallway led directly into the warehouse, which was impressive.

The space was huge, with a polished concrete floor, and was filled with twenty-foot-tall shelves of food in boxes, some wrapped in cellophane to keep them together. Smiling employees and volunteers walked the aisles with clipboards and moved pallets with forklifts into trucks that waited in three open bays.

A man with a scruffy beard and plaid shirt walked up to us, befuddlement in his expression. “Are you Laurie? The new volunteer? With a friend, maybe? We could use someone in the sorting room.”

“Sorry, no. We’re actually looking for Father Paul. The front desk said I could find him in here.”

“Oh, sure. He’s in diapers.” The man gestured toward the other end of the warehouse, and I stifled an immature laugh at his inadvertent joke.

The warehouse was chilly, cold air blowing in through the open bays. But the staff looked happy to be at work, buoyed, maybe, by the fact that they were helping others.

We did, indeed, find Seth Tate in diapers. But not literally.

He was tall and handsome, with blue eyes and wavy black hair. His hair was neatly trimmed, but a tidy black beard covered his face. If you hadn’t known Seth Tate, hadn’t been looking for him, you wouldn’t have seen the resemblance. It helped the disguise that he also wore a neck-to-ankle black cassock, the type of garment worn by priests. Seth Tate was hiding in plain sight, only thirty miles from Chicago.

He had a box of newborn diapers in hand but glanced up suddenly and met my gaze. His eyes widened with pleasant surprise, which calmed my nerves a bit. I’d been afraid he’d see our arrival as an unpleasant reminder of what he’d done in Chicago.

“Could I have a minute?” I whispered to Jeff.

“Take your time,” he said. “I’ll be here”—he scanned the shelves—“in toilet paper.” ns class="adsbygoogle" style="display:block" data-ad-client="ca-pub-7451196230453695" data-ad-slot="9930101810" data-ad-format="auto" data-full-width-responsive="true">