The Thief of All Light Page 6

  “I’m sure there’s a very good explanation for it when she turns up.”

  “Look at this,” Marianne said, thrusting her phone toward Carrie. “She updates Facebook constantly, but nothing since last night. Scroll through her history and you’ll see!”

  “I can’t get on Facebook at work, but I believe you,” Carrie said, dropping her notebook back in her pocket, not looking.

  Marianne’s hands were clenched around the purse straps so tight her knuckles were white. “What am I supposed to do? I need your help. We have to find her.”

  Carrie smiled as kindly as she could manage. “Listen, it’s going to be all right. These things happen all the time. What you could do is start calling all the local county prisons.”

  “Why?” Marianne said. “She’s never gotten in any trouble before.”

  “Well,” Carrie said. “That’s where I normally find people. They go out for the night, get drunk, get in a fight, get arrested, and wind up in jail. Then they can’t remember anybody’s phone number because all their numbers are stored in their phones, and they have to wait to bail out.”

  Marianne’s eyes flared. “Why would you tell me to call the jails and not the hospitals?”

  “Because hospitals call any family members they can find when there’s an emergency so they can get paid,” Carrie said. “Jails don’t.”

  “Well, she’s not in jail,” Marianne said, her voice little more than a whisper, as if spoken from far away. “She isn’t like that. She’s been behaving herself for a while now. Long enough that she wouldn’t be in jail.”

  “Well, that’s good,” Carrie said. “Then you have nothing to worry about. Listen, I’ll write up this report and you let me know if she turns up, okay?”

  “Okay,” Marianne mumbled. “Please keep an eye out for her.”

  Carrie pulled open the police car door, repeating, “All right.” She backed out of the station lot and drove away, saying, “Behaving herself for a while now, huh? Keep living in that dream world, lady. People like you are why people like me will always have a job.”

  * * *

  She left her vest and shirt and gun belt in her locker at the end of her shift. She dropped her gun into her off-duty holster and headed out of the station, feeling cool air on her bare arms. Her white T-shirt was clinging to her, and she pulled it away from her body, letting her skin breathe. She walked to her car and opened the door, standing behind it as she made sure no one else was in the parking lot, then reached up inside her shirt with both hands, grabbing the underside of her sports bra and pulling it forward. She sighed with relief at freeing her breasts, shaking them back and forth, wanting nothing more than to take the damned thing off. The bare refrigerator in her apartment loomed in her thoughts, though, and she did not feel like walking through the supermarket with her nipples poking through her wet, white T-shirt.

  She drove down the gravel roads of Old Town, a place built for coal miners back in the early 1900s. Those coal mines had been dug out for decades, and now all that was left were cheap houses and bars. She slowed past Tailfeathers, looking to see if Molly’s car had been moved yet. Instead, there was a marked police unit in the parking lot, with a muscular, uniformed officer leaning against the driver’s side door, scribbling into a notepad. It was Sergeant Dave Kenderdine, who headed up the Task Force, she realized, and she turned into the lot and waved to him. “Hey, Sarge,” she said, rolling down her window. “You all right?”

  “No, not really,” he said. “You know Hawthorne from the Task Force?”

  “Was he there the other night?”

  “No. He was here the other night,” Kenderdine said, pointing at the bar’s front door. “In a marked police car, which our department lets him take home but does not allow him to take out drinking.”

  “Oh no,” Carrie said.

  “Oh yes. And it gets better. Not only does he bring said police car to go out drinking, he leaves it unlocked, because in his mind, who is going to mess with the police, right?”

  “Christ,” she said.

  “It is not until today that he opens up the trunk and realizes he is missing some equipment.”

  “Not his gun, I hope.”

  “No, but only because his dumb-ass took it inside the bar. Looks like they got one of his flashbangs, though.”

  “What an idiot. What’s going to happen to him?”

  “If he worked for your chief? He’d have his ass in a sling so tight he wouldn’t be able to get a job selling toothbrushes. He’s my boss’s cousin, though, so with my luck he’ll probably get promoted to lieutenant.”

  “Is there anything I can do?” Carrie asked.

  “No,” Kenderdine said. “I just came out here to see if the thieving pricks ditched the stuff somewhere. I expect we’ll hear about a bad guy in a police uniform holding up gas stations in the next few days, though. Won’t that be fun?”

  * * *

  Carrie turned down the next street, entering a long corridor of poorly kept townhomes. The first one on the corner had been condemned for over a year, after its roof collapsed. The house still sat there, caved in, its insides exposed like a dissected animal. An old woman smoked on the porch connected to the ruined house; the only thing separating her house from the condemned property was a line of knotted caution tape.

  Gravel crunched beneath her car tires as she searched for a place to park. She pulled behind a large station wagon with rusted bumpers. It was fall, and the house still had Christmas lights strewn across the porch from the year before. A thin, older woman opened the door for her, her short hair the color of bright silver. She wore large hoop earrings that made her ears sag. Her makeup was piled on to fill in the deep ravines etched across her face, and she inhaled on her cigarette as she saw Carrie but was kind enough to blow the smoke out the side of her mouth. “Hey, baby doll, what are you doing here?”

  Carrie smiled and kissed the woman on the cheek. “Hi, Penny. Just wanted to swing by and see you guys.”

  “Well, come on in. Molly’s upstairs in her room with Nubs. The older one wasn’t feeling too well today.”

  “I bet,” Carrie said. “I got an interesting phone call.”

  “Oh, stop,” Penny said. “She doesn’t go out that often anymore and you know it.”

  “You’re right,” Carrie said, happy to acquiesce. From the time she was thirteen years old and had first walked through Penny’s front door, when there was no good reason to, Penny had treated her like family.

  “How’s that father of yours? Is he good?”

  “He’s still drinking.”

  Penny’s face wrinkled, puckering up on the left side as if she was chewing a piece of tough meat. She patted Carrie on the face and said, “The toughest part about growing up is that you realize your parents are just as screwed up and confused as you are.” She wagged her finger in the air near Carrie’s face and added, “But Rosendo did right by you, young lady. So don’t go around talking about him like he’s some kind of disappointment.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Carrie said.

  “Don’t call me ma’am. You make me sound old.”

  “It’s not me making you sound old. It’s those things you keep smoking. You’re starting to sound like a drag queen with a chest cold.”

  Penny rolled her eyes. “Oh, listen to the high-and-mighty police officer! I guess you get to point out what everybody else is doing wrong now.”

  “Very funny,” Carrie said. “You know, speaking of my dad, I always said he just needed a good woman in his life. He’s still got all his hair, you know,” she added.

  “You’ve been trying to hook us up since you were a kid, baby doll. You’re never gonna quit, are you?”

  “Just imagine how great it would be. All of us under the same roof. Just like one of those movies where everyone winds up one big, happy family.”

  “Yeah, a horror movie,” Penny said, laughing so hard that she began to cough up nicotine phlegm. Carrie headed for the staircase, dodging the toys
piled at the edges of every step. She recognized ones that she’d bought, seeing that they were well played with, and congratulated herself on being the greatest aunt in all of human history.

  Before she could even knock on the closed bedroom door, two voices called out, “Come in!”

  Carrie opened the door and found a large clump in the center of the bed, hiding two bodies entangled under thick blankets. There were strands of wheat-colored hair sticking out from the top, splayed out across the pillow. Carrie crept across the floor, cackling in her best evil witch voice, “I know someone’s in here. Where is the pretty little one? Where could she be?”

  A little girl’s giggle escaped from under the blanket, high-pitched and excited. Carrie cried out, “There she is!” and dove onto the bed, tearing back the blankets to reveal Nubs hiding in her mother’s arms. The child squealed with delight as Carrie kissed her and tickled her tiny ribs and sides. When both of them ran out of breath, she raised her head to Molly and said, “What are you doing in bed, slacker?”

  “I don’t feel good,” Molly moaned.

  “That’s called being hungover.”

  “It’s called shut up and go get me a cup of coffee.”

  “Loser.”

  “Bitch.”

  “Hey!” Carrie snapped, looking down at Nubs.

  Nubs frowned. “I’m not allowed to say any of Mommy’s bad words.”

  “And neither is she, or I’ll put her right in jail.”

  Nubs turned toward her mom and poked her in the stomach, “No more bad words. You wouldn’t like being in jail.”

  “You two are not allowed to gang up on me when I don’t feel good,” Molly said. She pressed a cold pack to her forehead and looked down at the television, smiling at the angelic face there.

  “What is this crap—I mean, garbage?” Carrie said, correcting herself as Nubs’s head whipped around.

  “Shut it,” Molly said. “It’s the best movie ever!”

  “Is this The Notebook?” Carrie groaned. “Nubs, quick, look away! It’s already taken your mother, but I won’t let it get you too!” She bent down and scooped Nubs up into her arms, pressing her head down into her chest.

  “Mommy said it was your favorite book,” Nubs called out with a muffled voice.

  Carrie’s eyes widened as she looked down at Molly. “How dare you! You know corruption of a minor is a crime in this state. You better watch yourself, lady.”

  Molly laughed so hard that she winced and pressed her hands to the sides of her head, moaning in pain.

  “Come on,” Carrie said, turning with Nubs still in her arms. “Let’s go make this whiny baby some coffee, what do you say?”

  Nubs said okay as Carrie opened the bedroom door and maneuvered them through it. Molly rolled over on the bed to watch them go and called out, “Aspirin, too, please.”

  “Anything else?”

  “I have to pee.”

  Carrie looked back from the hallway, “Want me to bring you a bucket?” Nubs laughed out loud at that, and Carrie looked at her. “Maybe we can find some of your old diapers for her?”

  “Neither one of you is funny,” Molly said as she threw the blankets away from her, still pressing the cold pack to her head. “Neither one at all.”

  Nubs wrapped her legs around Carrie’s sides and squeezed as they made their way down the steps. “I just started watching a new show. Do you want to watch it with me?”

  “Sure,” Carrie said as she moved Nubs’s leg off the hard corrugated plastic handle sticking above her waistband. “Watch yourself on that, sweetie. Don’t want you to get hurt.”

  “Is that your gun?”

  “Yep. So don’t touch it.”

  “Do you shoot people with it?”

  “Nope.”

  “Will you ever shoot people with it?”

  “I hope not,” Carrie said. “Only if they’re hurting someone else.”

  “Or you,” Nubs said, putting her head against Carrie’s chest.

  “Or me,” Carrie said, stroking the little girl’s hair.

  5

  RONALD.

  He told himself that was his name as he drove, repeating it over and over in his mind like a mantra. He turned into the Hansen Mall parking lot, driving past the security car parked near the entrance. It was made up to look like police car, with yellow lights across the top instead of blue and red. In the rearview mirror, it looked just like the real thing, and he stored that away for future memory in case he needed it.

  But not as Ronald, he reminded himself. Ronald from Houma, Louisiana. That day, he’d eaten a pound of crawfish layered in Cajun spices and listened to zydeco music, loud. Accordions blared through the speakers on his truck’s dashboard as he found a parking spot, drawing looks from the people walking up the sidewalk. He tipped his hat to them and said, “Good morning,” like a good Southern boy should.

  The man calling himself Ronald parked his truck near the Macy’s entrance and shut the door, taking a minute to thumb the shoulder straps on his overalls. He walked toward the entrance, humming an accordion line, thinking about alligators and shrimp boats and nutria, holding clear images of the bayou in his mind and telling himself that was home. Corn bread and cold beer, that was all a body craved.

  Well, he thought, not all it craved.

  He opened the door to Macy’s, holding it for a family who walked past without saying thank you. He smiled anyway, knowing it was the decline of American social values doing us all in but taking it upon himself to shore up the line. He headed for the makeup section, where busy women flitted from passerby to passerby, offering free samples and makeovers. The women were overly done up, wearing thick layers of foundation like masks that threatened to slide off their faces if they turned their heads too quickly. He ignored them and they ignored him.

  He moved down the aisles of glass cabinets until he found an empty black chair next to the MAC section and sat. It was only a few moments until he was seen. “I’m sorry, sugar, but you can’t sit there. We have chairs you can sit in if you’re waiting for someone,” a voice said from behind him.

  Ronald turned around in the chair, seeing the makeup artist who’d spoken, a tall, well-built man wearing bright red lipstick and deep eye shadow. ANTOINE was printed on the name tag pinned to his smock, and Ronald said, “Actually, I’m here alone, friend. I was wondering, can y’all do that to me?”

  “Do what?” Antoine said.

  “Make me look like you?”

  Antoine stepped back, pressing his hand under his chin. “You want me to put your face on, sweetie? For real?”

  “For real,” he repeated.

  Antoine spun his chair around to face a brightly lit mirror and said, “Well, all right, then! You came to the right place, honey. It is Friday, and we are all ready to party! Going somewhere special tonight?”

  “I have to meet someone,” he said, watching as Antoine selected a bright pink lipstick from the assortment in the workstation and brought it close to him. Antoine tilted his head back, humming as he worked. Ronald felt the lipstick’s softness press against his lips, and his eyes widened as he watched the lines of his mouth change color in the mirror’s reflection.

  * * *

  People stared at his face as he walked through the mall. He told himself he did not mind, that Ronald would not mind. He caught glimpses of his new face in the shop windows and mirrored walls, delighted at the fullness of his lashes and the soft redness of his cheeks. The dark-skinned woman working in the clothing store looked up as he walked in, taking in his loose-fitting overalls and workboots and brightly colored face with thick mascara eyelashes, and said, “Can I help you?”

  “I need to find something to wear,” he said, trying to use Ronald’s new voice, one fitting for his new face, imagining it should be high-pitched and soft. “For a special night.”

  She regarded him, looking at his size and shape, touching the side of her brow in thought. “Hmm, I think we have something back here that might work,” she
said, turning with one finger held in the air like a beacon for him to follow.

  He watched her walking, noting that her waist was skinny but her backside was full and rounded to perfection. Her hair was tied in a tight bun, and she wore a long, flowing skirt with sandals that revealed most of her feet. Just a few days earlier, she would have meant something entirely different to him. Would that he’d met her when he’d been Ed, but now it was too late. He would have taken his time with her, running his hands up and down her body and licking the droplets of sweat beading on that wonderful chocolate skin. He wondered what she tasted like. Cocoa butter? He had taken black women before, doing things with needles and knives and red-hot irons to their dark nipples and thick bush pussies that made their pink tongues stick straight out as they screamed and screamed and screamed and oh how they screamed.

  “Stop!” he said aloud.

  The salesgirl’s head whipped around in fright. She nearly stumbled into him, and Ronald fought the urge to pounce on top of her like a leopard, but he steeled himself and resisted. These were not Ronald’s thoughts. Ronald just wants a pretty new shirt for his pretty new face, and that’s all. “That one, pick from that rack right there,” he said. “I’m sorry I yelled, sugar, they just looked perfect to me right away.”

  She laughed nervously. “I get excited too. That’s why I got this job, for the discount. Okay, let me see what I can find.”

  He stood with his head lowered, focusing on the thick plush carpet, cursing himself for being so weak. She took his hand and slid something soft and silky across his palm, asking him how good it felt. He looked down and saw a lavender shirt lying across his wrist. “It’s lovely.”

  “Do you want to try it on?”

  He told her that he did. She led him to the dressing room and pulled back the curtain. Stepping inside, he lowered the straps on his overalls and stripped off his T-shirt, careful not to smear his face.

  “Do you want me to look for pants too? Maybe a skirt?” the woman called through the curtain.

  He slid his arms through the shirt’s delicate sleeves and fastened the buttons. It had frilly cuffs at the wrists and glittering pearl buttons that ended at the center of his chest. He stopped and admired Ronald in the mirror. “I don’t need anything else,” he said. He had too many things to carry in his pockets.