Finding Shelby Moore, Part V

Lindsey came to me that night. She does that in my dreams sometimes when I’m struggling with something. We sat on Clearwater Beach in lawn chairs, the water lapping gently at our feet. I turned to her and gasped at her presence. It had been a long time since I’d dreamt of her and I’d forgotten how alive she made me feel.

“It’s you,” I said.

“You know I’m not real,” she said. She wore a tight blue one-piece swimsuit, and though her body wasn’t as tight as Carl Clayton’s wife’s, it turned me on more. For a few seconds, I had to remember to breathe.

“I don’t care. Your here.”

She smiled and the calluses on my heart dissolved. Our fingers intertwined. Normally, she didn’t touch me; she said the rules didn’t allow it. Tonight, she broke them. If she broke them a little more intimately, I wouldn’t leave. Maybe that’s why the rules existed.

“You looking into that girl’s kidnapping?”

“Not anymore.”

She pressed her lips together the way she did when I disappointed her and squeezed my hand. “How come?”

“Not mine to look into.”

“I think you should,” she said. “She doesn’t have anyone else looking out for her interests.”

“It’s a business, not a charity. Last time out, I almost died. Unless there’s a paying customer, I'd like avoid that.”

She nodded and wouldn’t look me in the eye. “You said since your love for your fellow man died with me.”

I nodded and looked away. I'd have pulled my hand from hers, but she might leave then.

“It hurts me to hear that,” she said.

“Lindsey do you know how many people died when I solved your murder?”

She nodded and her eyes glazed “Yeah. And I know who they were, too. But if I meant anything to you, you should try your best not to become a bitter old man.”

I closed my eyes, something I've never done before in a dream. “You’re asking a lot.”

“I know,” she said. “But something isn’t right about this and I think you know that.”

I opened my eyes and looked at her. The bathing suit was sheer, almost like a layer of paint. It was a cruel thing to wear when I couldn't have her.

“I can’t save everyone,” I said. “Sometimes people have to get out of their own messes—or not.”

“I’m not concerned about everyone. I’m concerned about you.” She stood and sat on my lap.
Again, I had to remember to breathe.

“I miss you so much,” she whispered in my ear. Unlike Clayton’s wife, there was no desperation in her voice. But there was hunger and the hunger almost ate me. I almost didn't want to come back.

At that point, I woke up and cursed myself for it. My hear seemed to rattle my ribcage with every beat. My hair was slick with sweat and I still had trouble breathing.

I stared at the ceiling a long time. If Lindsey wanted me to look into this, I’d do it. But she could have given me a little more information, maybe a place to start.

Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me. Most people learn after twice. That’s why there’s nothing in that saying about fooling me a third time. And yet, for the third time, I decided to look into this. This time it was because a false image of someone who didn't exist any more told me to do it.

*****

The FBI would’ve gone through Shelby's apartment, appointment book, e-mails, phone records, all that. They had the people and resources to do it. And they were under more scrutiny on this now than anyone. If Shelby died, they'd be blamed.

I didn’t need to fight the bureaucracy and I had a little more latitude to play a hunch. Now, I just needed to find a hunch.

I went back to the beach and walked through what happened again. The van would have been waiting someplace, probably in the parking lot where they'd taken her. It would have followed them there from someplace, meaning they probably staked out either Shelby's house or Carl’s apartment.

I stood by the rail at Frenchy’s and imagined the scene again. The van wasn’t moving very fast. There were no screeching breaks when it stopped. I thought about the parking lot itself. It was fairly full, typical for a summer afternoon.

I could see Shelby’s face from where I stood, but she didn’t react until the taser hit her. Then her body seized up and she fell into the side of the van.

I couldn’t see Carl’s face, but I did see him fall and heard him wail. Then, the big guy loaded Shelby into the van. Her smile stayed with me again. I'd seen it when I closed my eyes to go to sleep.

Getting tasered hurt like a son of a bitch. A friend of mine, a trooper named Tim Owens had prevailed on me to get tasered as part of a training exercise for some Boy Scouts. In return, he offered a steak dinner at his house. It turned out his wife, Karen, had invited a woman they wanted me to meet. That woman was Lindsey. I’d often joked about whether the payoff was worth the pain.

I got back in the car and drove to the nearest Panera, where I got out my laptop and looked at videos of people being tasered. Most of them didn’t have enough resolution to show the tasee’s facial expression, but of the ones that did, none of them looked like they were smiling. Shelby was smiling. It must have been a grimace. Unless it wasn't.

“Son of a bitch,” I said.