Текст книги "Thread of Hope"

Автор книги: Jeff Shelby

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FIVE

I retraced my original route into Rancho Santa Fe and returned to the highway. Gina Coleman had asked where I was staying. I wouldn’t have told her even if I had known, but the truth was I hadn’t found a place to stay yet. I’d gone straight from the airport to the hospital to both of the Jordan homes.

I drove south out of Del Mar and back toward downtown. Staying on the island was expensive and something I didn’t want to do, regardless of money. It had been hard enough to drive over the bridge the first time, returning to a town that did nothing but bring my stomach to boil. But Chuck was there, Meredith Jordan went to high school there and I figured that at least being close would save me some time. I didn’t have to stay on Coronado, but I knew I’d be spending time there.

I settled for one of the hotels across the bay from the island and checked into a room on the fifteenth floor. I threw my backpack in the closet and sat down on the edge of the bed. Twelve hours prior, I’d been napping in a small apartment in Biloxi, Mississippi, two blocks from the Gulf of Mexico. I’d been in Biloxi for almost three months, enjoying the quiet and isolation and the walks along the shores of the Gulf. No one had come calling for my help recently and I was happy not to give it.

But Biloxi started to close in around me, as I found all places eventually did. Too much time by myself, with nothing to focus on other than the past. When my cell phone chirped and woke me from the nap, I was grateful for the interruption in what had become my life.

Lauren’s voice had startled me. I hadn’t spoken to her in close to a year and for a moment, for an excruciatingly long moment, I thought that this was the phone call that I’d been hoping for for nearly seven years. Maybe we had an answer and after I said hello, I realized I was holding my breath. Lauren probably knew that and very quickly explained why she was calling. I was ripped hard back into reality.

The thought of returning to San Diego created a dull ache in my gut. There were so many reasons not to go back and yet as soon as she told me about Chuck, I said yes, told her that I was on my way. I had cut everyone out of my life and I knew he was the one person that hadn’t held it against me. He understood. He’d stood by me in more ways than any friend should ever be asked to and I owed him.

Things change quickly.

I walked over to the window. A ferry boat was crossing the bay to the island and lights freckled the bridge over to the place I’d called home for thirty-plus years.

I wasn’t comfortable being back. My plan was to never come back because I didn’t think that anything good would come of it. It wouldn’t repair my marriage or my reputation, and it wouldn't bring my daughter back. The only thing I could count on was seeing the past rush at me head-on. I stared out that hotel window and I could feel all of it bearing down on me, with no clue how to stop it.

SIX

Not ready for sleep, I went down to the main floor of the hotel and walked outside toward Seaport Village, a collection of shops and restaurants strung along the north end of the bay where PCH met Harbor Drive. I bought fish and chips from a walk-up window and found a small table near a fountain, trying to straighten out Chuck and the high school and Meredith Jordan in my head as I ate.

The complaint stated that Chuck knew Meredith through their contact at the high school. Maybe Chuck had some sort of mid-life crisis and decided to become a teacher. I doubted it, but anything was possible. Gina Coleman definitely knew Chuck, but I didn’t know if that was through Meredith or another avenue. Coleman was the first link of any kind I’d found and I’d go back to her soon if I had no luck elsewhere.

A couple sat down at the table next to mine with their daughter. She looked to be about seven or eight. She was small for her age and struggled awkwardly to get into her chair. The family had purchased fish and chips as well and the little girl was soaking the fries in ketchup, then jamming them into her mouth. She turned to me with stained lips and grinned.

My stomach jolted and I stood, gathering up my trash without returning the little girl’s smile.

I walked through the village to Buster’s, a beach-themed bar and grill with old longboards on the walls. I didn’t want to go sit in my quiet hotel room. I found a corner stool at the far end of the bar with a window that looked out over the boardwalk toward Marina Park. I bummed a piece of paper and pen from the bartender and started making notes on what little I knew about Chuck and Meredith. I was on my second diet soda when the guy two stools down from me motioned in my direction.

“You've got an admirer,” he said.

The guy was bigger and younger than me and looked like hell. Unshaven, black circles around his eyes. A tan that was fading.

“Excuse me?”

He motioned to the window. “Hang on. He's coming around again. He's watching you.”

Ten seconds later, I saw who he meant. A guy about six feet tall in jeans and a blue button-down walked past the window closest to me. He was subtle outside the restaurant, not really looking my way, not really doing anything. But there was a quick glance in my direction.

“That's the third time he's been by,” the guy at the bar said. “He's circling. And he's looking at you.”

“Maybe he's looking at you.”

The guy finished his beer and stood. “If he was looking at me, I'd have already broken his arm.” He kept his eyes on me as he stuck his hand in the pocket of his shorts. “He's looking at you.” He pulled out a handful of bills and laid them on the bar. “But, whatever.”

The bartender came over and shoved the bills back in the guy's direction. “On me, Noah.” The bartender placed his hands on the bar. “I heard what happened. I'm sorry, man. Liz was…”

The guy shoved the bills back toward the bartender and pointed at me. “Buy his drinks then.” The guy hesitated. “And if I don't see you for awhile, take it easy.”

The guy glanced at me, the circles around his eyes darker now, then left.

I should've thanked him, but now I was focused on who might be watching me.

I waved at the bartender and kept an eye on the window, waiting for the fourth pass. The bartender hustled over.

“You're good, man,” he said. “He got you.”

I pulled my wallet out of the back pocket of my jeans anyway and unfolded it, looking for a couple of bills to tip the guy. Several quarters fell out of the fold and tumbled to the floor.

“Dammit,” I muttered, laying my wallet on the bar and bending over to pick up the quarters.

“Cute kid,” the bartender said to me when I was upright again.

“Excuse me?”

He pointed to my wallet. “She’s cute.”

The wallet had opened flat on the bar top and the picture of the young girl in the tattered plastic sleeve was staring back at me. Plain gray background, her small oval faced framed with long yellow-blonde hair. Her smile was awkward and missing two teeth, her head tilted fractionally to her left. It was taken the second week of second grade when life was still fair.

I fished quickly for cash from the back fold of the wallet, fighting a surge of nausea in my gut.

“How old is she?” he asked, leaning in to get a better look. “Seven or so?”

I found a ten-dollar bill, tossed it on the bar, folded up the wallet and shoved it in my pocket.

“Sixteen,” I said as I walked away, my steps heavy and forced. “She’d be sixteen.”

SEVEN

I was wrong. It wasn’t a guy that was keeping an eye on me.

It was a kid.

I stood in the lobby of Buster’s, fishing for a peppermint out of a small tin bowl, waiting for my friend to pass by. A minute later, he walked quickly past the front of the restaurant, not even glancing at the doors I was standing behind, probably assuming I was still at the bar. I stepped out through the doors and followed him.

He turned at the far corner of the restaurant and it was clear to me he had no idea what he was doing. He'd made nothing but circles around the restaurant. When he turned the corner, I caught a better glimpse of his face. A bit of stubble dotted his chin, but his cheeks were a little red and there were no lines around the eyes. No way he was more than eighteen.

He came around to the boardwalk-side of the restaurant and I stayed a good distance behind him, tucked in behind an older couple wearing matching Hawaiian shirts. When the kid got to the window at the bar, he glanced over, did a double take, then slowed, realizing I’d moved from my spot inside at the bar.

I slipped out from behind the couple to the wall that ran on the other side of the walk and half-turned, like I was looking at the birds feeding down by the water. I was parallel to him and he was still in my peripheral vision.

He stepped closer to the window, clearly wondering where the hell I’d gone. I moved forward, staying out of his line of vision. He hesitated for a moment, then broke into a pace just short of a jog as he circled the restaurant one more time. I followed.

He came around to the window at the bar again and pulled out a cell phone. I stayed further behind him this time, out at the boardwalk railing, sidling up next to a group of teenage boys who were comparing skateboards.

My friend spun slowly in a circle, talking rapidly on the cell, gesturing, frustrated.

I thought about just walking up to him, surprising him and seeing what his response was. But if I did that, I wouldn’t get any idea of who he was talking to or why he was following me. Patience wasn’t my strongest character quality, but I summoned what little I did have to see if I could learn a bit more.

He folded up the phone and headed west toward the Harbor House and the park that jutted out into the bay, dodging couples and tourists on the crowded boardwalk. I kept my distance, moving behind him. He wasn’t looking around any longer, just seemed to be aiming for a new location.

The road into and out from the park was clogged with traffic and I was afraid I’d lose him, as he could’ve easily jumped into a car and sped off. I picked up the pace and was only about fifty feet behind him as he crossed the busy road and walked over to the west side of the village.

I slowed, relieved that he wasn’t looking for a ride and watched him stop as he came up behind the Harbor House.

He was joined by another kid about his age, shorter, with a baseball cap on backwards, shorts hanging below his knees and a bright blue T-shirt that had “Coronado Wrestling” written in white letters across the front. The shirt looked two sizes too small across the kid’s broad chest.

They both sort of shrugged and turned, heading for the park.

I’d used up my patience.

I angled back, still on the opposite side of the road, then slid in behind a group of college students and crossed the street, about ten feet in front of my followers as we headed right for them. I separated from the group just as we all hit the sidewalk and stepped out in front of my two new friends. Their eyes went wide.

“Hey guys,” I said. “Looking for me?”

EIGHT

The one that had been following me looked at his friend, then back to me. “What?”

“You heard me.”

“What’s your deal, mister?” the shorter one said, his face screwing up with agitation.

“My deal is your pal was following me.”

“Get out of our way,” the shorter one said.

I stood there. They stood there.

“Here’s the way it’s gonna go, guys.” I stepped in closer, looking at the taller one because he seemed less sure of their position. “All three of us know you were following me. I have no problem with that. As long as you tell me why. If you wanna act like nothing happened, that’s fine too. We can keep walking until we find a nice quiet spot and then I’ll make you tell me.

“We weren’t following you,” the tall one said, unconvincingly.

“I saw you with a beer in your hand in the bar,” I said. “That’s illegal.”

The tall one’s face pinched together, looking at me like I was crazy.

“Bullshit,” the short one said. “He didn’t drink anything.”

“See? I can lie too.”

Their faces reddened and I tried to seize the moment. “Right now. One of you starts talking or I’m gonna kick both your asses. Right now.”

The taller one took a step back, clearly the weaker of the two. “Okay, okay.”

“Jesus, Matt,” the other one said.

“Hey, this was your idea, Derek,” Matt fired back at his friend.

“Now I got names,” I said. “Derek and Matt. We’re off to a good start.” I looked at Matt. “You were following me. Why?”

“We saw you outside the gates at Meredith’s house,” Matt said.

Derek winced, shaking his head.

I knew my way around San Diego. It wasn’t like going to a city I was unfamiliar with. I didn’t have to think about where I was going. Apparently, I’d been too comfortable navigating the streets of the city to pay attention to the rearview mirror.

“We wanted to see where you were going,” Matt said, then pointed at Derek. “He wanted to see.”

Derek scowled again, then looked at me. “You’re friends with him, right?”

“With who?”

“With that asshole that fucked Meredith,” he spat. “He fucked her and then he fucked her up so she wouldn’t tell.”

His words were like a kick to my shins. Chuck slept with Meredith? No way in hell did I believe that. Derek’s anger was real, though, and his statement bothered me.

“Yeah, he’s my friend,” I said. “I’m an investigator.”

“Yeah, I know,” Derek said. “We heard that when you were talking with Mr. Jordan’s security chick. And you’re working for Coach Winslow.”

I blinked my eyes a couple of times, clearing my head, making sure I’d heard him right. “Coach Winslow?”

His face tightened again, irritated. “Yeah. He never should’ve come to our school.”

I pointed at Derek’s T-shirt. “He coaches at Coronado?”

Matt nodded, just wanting the interrogation to end. But Derek cocked his head at me, unsure of me now. “I thought you were friends with him?”

“I am.”

He nodded, a sly grin creeping onto his face. “Well, for a friend, you don’t seem to know shit.”

Couldn’t argue with that.

Derek lifted his chin at Matt. “Come on.”

Matt stood still, not sure what to do.

“He’s not gonna do anything,” Derek said, turning back to me. “You’re not gonna do a thing.”

“Sure about that?”

He nodded, confident. “Yeah, I am. Go ahead. Start kicking our asses, like you said. Let’s see what happens.” His eyes swept the area. “Lotta people around here right now.”

He was right. I wasn’t going to start smacking around a couple of high school kids in the middle of a crowd, particularly when they hadn’t done anything really wrong.

“Why were you following me?” I asked again, bringing the conversation full circle.

Derek grabbed Matt by the arm and pulled him past me. Matt looked down at the ground, refusing to meet my eyes. Derek, on the other hand, was happy to sneer at me as they went past me. I did nothing.

NINE

I went back to my hotel room for an uneasy night of sleep, my mind bouncing from Chuck lying in a hospital bed, to two punk kids tailing me, to the phrase “Coach Winslow,” to knowing I was going to have cross back over to the island the next morning.

Chuck always did his own thing and had ever since I’d known him in high school. We were as close as friends could be, but not in a dependent way. And while there was now a fracture in our relationship, I still felt like I had a good handle on who he was. Hearing that he was a coach struck me as odd, but hearing that he slept with a teenage girl struck me as flat out fiction.

I had zero doubt the charges against him were crap. He did a lot of stupid things but he wouldn’t sleep with an underage kid. Not in a million years. But the fact that he now seemed to be doing other things that I wouldn’t have expected had my mind spinning.

I got up the following morning and, after a light breakfast, headed back over the bridge to the island.

There is nothing spectacular looking about Coronado High School. Originally built in 1912, it still occupies the same location off of D Avenue where it was initially established. It had slowly grown to a four-block campus extending west toward H Avenue, a neat rectangle of small two-story Spanish style stucco buildings dotted with palm trees and striped with long medians of green grass. I knew that the school had undergone some capital improvements-refurbished classrooms, a new library, an entirely separate arts center-but from the exterior, it was the same school I’d attended nearly twenty-five years earlier.

There was no school parking lot and cars ringed the streets around the campus. It was like a convention of expensive cars. BMWs, Land Rovers, Saabs and a few Porsches lined the curbs. Even though most of the students lived within walking distance, the kids at Coronado knew how to get to school.

Students were hanging around aimlessly on the shallow steps in front of the administrative building. They didn’t seem to notice that I was there, that I was older than they were and that I wasn’t dressed as well. It was Abercrombie and Fitch everywhere, like the catalog had come to life, complete with the models. Tan skin, shiny hair, expensive jewelry, boys and girls who looked twenty-five rather than seventeen.

As old as the school was, Lana McCauley seemed nearly as old. She’d been there when I was a student and she was still there when I walked in that morning.

“Joseph Tyler,” she said, smiling. “Class of ’88.”

Despite my conflicted feelings about why I was back on campus, I smiled. It was what Lana was famous for. Within one month of your freshman year, she knew your name and never forgot it. Ever.

“Hello, Mrs. McCauley,” I said. “How are you?”

She spread her arms across the desk in front of her. “Just making sure things stay on track, as always.”

“As always.”

Her phone beeped and she held up a finger. She answered the phone, transferred the call and focused on me again. “I’m surprised to see you here, Joseph.”

“Why’s that?”

She tented her fingers. “I didn’t know you were back on Coronado.”

“Just got back yesterday.”

She studied me for a moment. “Well, it’s a pleasure to see you. How can I help you?”

I knew she must’ve had a hundred different questions, like everyone else I used to know would. The difference was that Lana had the dignity not to blurt them out.

There were several different things I could’ve told her. But these days in a school, it was best not to mess around. And I didn’t want to insult Lana.

“I’m investigating an incident with a current student here,” I said. “Meredith Jordan.”

Lana McCauley’s smile thinned. “I cannot allow you to speak with a student on the campus, Joseph, unless you are accompanied by the parents of that student. I’m sorry.” She said it with a tone that implied she knew I wasn’t there with the girl’s parents.

“Certainly, I understand,” I said, anticipating her response. “Could I ask you a question or two?”

“It’s not my place, Joseph.”

“Nothing too hard, I promise.”

“It’s not the difficulty that would be the problem.”

I smiled. Only a fool would attempt to fool Lana. “Was Chuck Winslow employed here?”

“I cannot comment on that,” she said. “You’ll have to inquire at the district offices. I can give you their contact information.”

The Coronado Unified School District office was about a block away from where I was standing, housed on the same campus. But I was trying to be agreeable.

“That’d be fine,” I said.

She sat up straighter in her chair and quickly began scribbling on a piece of paper.

“Is Mr. Willis still the Athletic Director here?” I asked.

She shook her hand and handed me the piece of paper. “No. He retired three years ago and moved to Phoenix.”

“Who replaced him?”

“Mr. Stricker is our Athletic Director now.”

“Is he available?”

The wheels were turning in Lana’s head, wondering if I was trying to trick her into something she wasn’t supposed to do. I wasn’t. Both Matt and Derek had referred to Chuck as “Coach Winslow” which I assumed meant he was connected to the athletic department. And if Lana didn’t want to call him directly, I could walk outside, dial the school from my cell and ask to speak to him. He wasn’t off-limits.

After a moment of thought, she picked up the phone, turned away and spoke quietly into it, then hung up. “Mr. Stricker will be with you shortly, Joseph.”

“Thank you,” I said. “I appreciate it.”

She nodded, smiling, happy to oblige.

“Chuck was coaching swimming, right?” I asked.

She pursed her lips. “I’m sure Mr. Stricker will be able to answer your questions.”

Worth the shot, but I should’ve known better.

Five minutes later, a man the size of a garage door came walking down the hallway. Dressed in a golf shirt with the Coronado tiki emblem over the chest and khaki slacks with creases sharp enough to cut, he smiled at me from a distance. Square head, blond hair cut short and going gray, a neck as thick as my thigh. He looked vaguely familiar but I couldn’t place him.

He reached me and extended his big bear paw of a hand. “Robert Stricker.”

The name hit another bell and suddenly I saw him on my television on Sunday afternoons.

I shook his hand. “Joe Tyler. Linebacker for the Chargers, right?”

He smiled politely, indicating he’d heard it plenty of times before. “A long time ago.”

“I enjoyed watching you play.”

“Thank you,” he said, graciously taking a compliment he probably got once a week. “Why don’t you come down to my office?”

He was only an inch or two taller than me but his girth made it seem like the difference was a foot. It felt like he was looming over me as we walked.

“You’ve been here since Willis left?” I asked.

“Yes. Did you know him?”

“I graduated from here in ‘84.”

“I came in a year before he left,” Stricker said. “Got my feet wet, learned what I could. Just trying not to screw things up now.”

He guided me toward the entrance to the gymnasium. He held open one of the large doors so I could pass. As soon as I got inside, I stopped.

The gymnasium had always been the one piece of the campus that linked to its earlier days, remaining unchanged for decades. The seats were up above, suspended above the court. The playing floor had gone from tan to dark brown, dead spots hiding everywhere. There had been no scoreboard, just a flip rack on a table on the opposite side of the bleachers.

But it had undergone significant changes since I’d last set foot in it.

The seats were still suspended above, but a bank of bleachers had been put in below them, doubling the seating capacity. The seemingly brand new floor gleamed with polish, the smell of varnish heavy in the air. A massive scoreboard was mounted on the far wall.

I looked at Stricker. “This is all new.”

Stricker led me around the baseline, behind the cushioned chairs that the teams sat in. “Thing was falling down around us. Parents stepped up and got us some money. It’s still small compared to some of the other gyms we play in, but at least we aren’t taping it together to hold it up.” He pointed across the gym floor to a bank of windows. “My office is there now and we’ve got office space for all of the coaches on campus. Makes a big difference.”

I remembered Mr. Willis’ office as being a table set up outside the locker room. I imagined it did indeed make a big difference.

Stricker’s office was a perfect square with a big window looking back toward the gym. Nothing in the office indicated he’d been a star professional athlete. A couple of certificates, a degree from UNLV and pictures of Coronado’s teams adorned the walls.

He gestured at the chair across from his desk as he lowered himself into an oversized leather desk chair. It squawked beneath his weight. He folded his hands across his chest and stared at me, his look having subtly changed from when he came out to get me. He’d gone from friendly officer of the school to linebacker looking to smash a quarterback in the face.

“Two ways we can go about this,” he said. “We can dance around or we can cut to the chase. I’ll leave it to you to choose.”

“I prefer cutting.”

“Good. Saves us both time.” He paused. “I can’t tell you shit.”

“About what?”

“Thought we weren’t going to dance.”

I didn’t say anything.

Stricker sighed. “Lana told me you were here looking for info on the Jordan and Winslow thing. And I can’t tell you shit.”

“Can’t or won’t?”

“Doesn’t matter. Same result either way.”

“I’m not looking for info on Meredith Jordan,” I said.

“Yeah, you are,” he said, smiling. “But let’s pretend that’s true and we skip to the next item on your list.”

If he’d taken shots to the head during his career, it didn’t show. He was sharp and all business.

“Whatever she says Chuck Winslow did to her isn’t true,” I said.

“You know that for a fact?”

“I do.”

“How?”

“Think about whoever your closest teammate was,” I said. “The one single guy you would’ve picked every week to go to battle with because you trusted him so completely.”

Something shifted through his eyes, then he nodded.

“Chuck’s like that times ten in my life,” I said. “I know what he’s capable of and this isn’t it.”

Stricker let that settle in his thoughts for a moment. Then he leaned forward, placing his elbows on his desk. “I can appreciate that. But as a school administrator, I’m going to come down on the side of the student. Every time, until I hear otherwise.”

“Then why are you even talking to me?”

“What do you mean?”

“You’re the A.D. Why not pawn me off on the principal or some other administrator?” I asked. “If you aren’t going to talk to me and you aren’t interested in what I have to say about Chuck, why see me? What do you care?”

He grunted, the corners of his mouth twitching like small electrical currents. Finally he said, “Because I’m the one who okay’d hiring Winslow.”