“Khong.”
“No,” I tell her.
“Khong.”
The baby cries again but not loud. It’s wrapped in a bundle of parachute nylon and I figure it’s fifty-fifty there’s a pistol in there too. I wave my gun at the exit tunnel. Her eyes widen and she backpedals, staring at me. I know if she has a gun she’ll turn away, then pull it. I’ve got my sights lined up on her forehead to save the baby. Then she turns and stumbles and catches herself and runs with her baby into the tunnel. I watch her in the beam of my headlight. And she’s gone.
I’m forty-four days short today. It’s weird, little brother. I feel like I’m standing on a bridge with a noose around my neck and waiting for someone to push me over. Sarge reminds me that the shorter you are the safer you are, statistically, since you’ve made it this far. Much better chances than the day you arrived, he says. But this isn’t a statistical problem. It’s war, which presses a man’s fate into a smaller and smaller container. A young mother’s too.
I can’t wait to get home. Still got the route? Mom good? Jazz okay?
Love to All,
Matt is finishing his letter back to Kyle just as Tommy arrives with today’s papers. In the letter, Matt does not mention Bonnie, just as he hasn’t told Kyle abut Jazz. On half a sketchbook page, he dashes off a quick drawing of the house that will no longer be Kyle’s home by the time he gets back. Matt thinks of telling Kyle about losing the house, but it might be distracting. Although not as bad as hearing that Jazz has been missing for nine days and that Laguna is papered with her police missing-persons flyers. He creases and tears off the drawing, folds it carefully and puts it in the envelope with the letter.
Welcome home, Kyle.
Matt tears through his paper route like a kid on fire. His ridiculous parents, his inability to find his sister, Furlong’s dull disbelief, the growing probability that Bonnie was murdered, all fuel him. He pedals as hard as he can. His turns are tight and his skids are controlled. He treats the traffic with contempt. His accuracy with the papers is the best it’s ever been. Checks his Skindiver: 2:47 minutes, a record.
He’s dripping sweat, panting hard, and still angry by the time he’s finished, way up in Bluebird Canyon, looking down on the houses and the descending hills and the heaving white-capped Pacific. A yellow biplane pulls a Coppertone banner slowly up the coast, south-to-north.
He thinks about his sister. He thinks about Om. He remembers telling Mahajad that he’s looked everywhere for Jazz. Is there a different way to see? But wait a minute: how could he make such a claim? He has not looked everywhere.
He has not looked everywhere.
An idea begins to form in his angry mind.
That evening he’s eating fresh-caught perch alone in the Third Street house when the phone rings.
It’s Jazz, her voice a caged whisper.
“I can’t get out!”
“Where are you?”
“In Laguna! I’m in the...”
Then the sharp crack and the muted ring of a bell. Then dial tone.
Ten silent minutes.
Thirty.
He pictures her in a cage. A cell. A dark garage.
He calls Darnell, who answers on the first ring.
“Do not leave that phone,” she says.
They sit in the living room for the next hour, Matt telling Darnell what happened until there isn’t one more question she can ask or one more answer he can give. He repeats Jasmine’s nine words exactly. And how she said them: in breathless terror.
Matt stares out the window as Darnell’s assuring voice fills the little room. It’s important to know that she’s here, says the officer. That she’s close. That’s the hope.
“Do you believe me now?”
“I believe you now.”
“Furlong won’t. McAdam won’t.”
“I always believed you. But maybe not quite enough.”
“Belief plus doubt is not belief.”
“I believe you now, Matt. One hundred percent.”
Matt feels numb, but in a good way. He’s too afraid of what’s happening to his sister for nonsense, frivolity, or anything like pride to enter his mind. He feels purged. Pure. As if he’s broken through to another way of seeing things. Another connection to Jazz.
Suddenly, it comes to him: the way to find her.
It has clarity and logic, simplicity, and a dose of can’t-miss. Like certain moments fishing — timing the surge, then the cast, the pause, the retrieve — it’s all perfect and you know, you know. You just know.
29
The next morning, the Register coast cities reporter takes notes as Matt tells his tale. The reporter’s name is Steve Mitchell, and he wants Matt’s portrait of Jasmine, and an LBPD missing-persons flyer to impress his editor. His office is on Coast Highway in Laguna, in the basement of a real estate brokerage.
Matt senses none of the skepticism he’s gotten from the police. Mitchell agrees that a boy of sixteen ought to be able to ID his own sister from fifty feet away, fog or not. And know her voice on the phone. Mitchell says he’ll have to talk to the cops for their side of things. Kidnapping is serious business, he says, and newspapers have a responsibility. Matt says nothing of Jazz’s links to Austin Overton, Jordan Cavore’s parties, LA Moves, or Bonnie Stratmeyer. He’s trying to find his sister, not humiliate her. On Darnell’s advice, he says nothing about the peace-sign curtains in the kidnap van that night.
Sitting beside Matt, Laurel takes notes of her own. They’ve agreed that written documentation might be important. There will certainly be lots of things to keep track of. And Matt knows how important another set of eyes and ears could be.
“I hear you’re in the summer writing program at UCI,” says Mitchell. “I’m impressed.”
“Mom and Dad got me in,” she says.
“But still, you must be pretty good.”
“All I know is how hard it is.”
“Next summer, come see me if you want to intern here.”
“I’d love to.”
“And one more thing,” says Mitchell. “Nothing about this to the Times or the Pilot until after the story runs in the Register. Not even the News-Post. Get it?”