The Unearthing of Blackstone Read online

  You’d think I’ve dug enough dirt up on people to be relieved when someone shows up as true blue…

  He shook his head and smirked, then gripped his cold bottle of water and gulped what was left of it down.

  “Ahhhh…” He reared back in his seat, propped his hands behind his head, crossed his ankles and stared blankly at the computer. The wheels in his head turned and turned. He refused to let this thing go just yet.

  “You want to find your daughter. I get that… You have the money to keep this search up until you croak.”

  Something nagged at Ace. Maybe it was the look in the man’s coal black eyes, or the way he moved, or the tone of his deep, monotone voice, or a culmination of all three and possibly more, but he fashioned himself to be an expert on human nature. Due to this, he knew a thing or two about parents, despite not being one himself.

  All loving mothers and fathers of missing children, no matter the age of their offspring, would climb the highest mountain with their bare hands during a blizzard to find their child. He understood this completely. Though only an uncle to his nieces and nephews, he had seen enough in his field, and took this core fact to heart when dealing with missing children’s cases. He also understood that, although many parents would deny such an accusation — and some may admit it but wish it weren’t true — the two people who created life seemed to have a sense of ownership towards their offspring — at least the caring ones did. In Ace’s rationale, when one feels they own something or someone, they tend to take better care of that object or person. It’s not a rental or pay-by-the-hour. Parenthood was forever.

  This notion was absolute. He could sense that in Henderson, and though the man was obviously grief-stricken, he also appeared reserved, as if holding back at least part of the truth. He’d tried to pull it out of the man, to figure out the last events of that fateful morning. Henderson had declared that Lynne had been acting unusual and uttered a kind word, the ultimate prize to a parent’s ears. Ace was convinced she was a runaway, but that Henderson was in denial. He’d found the old police reports regarding the missing young lady that corroborated the man’s story. Due to her age, the local police had their hands somewhat tied. After all, she had been an adult. Regardless of Henderson’s prominence in his community, as in most cases of this nature, the seconds turns to minutes, then days matured to weeks on end. The search parties dried up and the hopefulness died out like the flames of a bonfire. But the question remained: Was there more to this fiery blaze he kept alive in his daughter’s name?

  Nevertheless, that was none of his business, or so Ace told himself so he could move along. He’d never researched a client before, never had an inclination to. Time was money, yet here he was doing it, and with vigor. Even though he now vowed to put this witch-hunt on ice, he knew he’d be back fiddling with his suspicions before the damned block melted. He stayed cocooned in his office, sorting through the files and sticking his nose in the man’s personal life, sniffing around like a bloodhound whose next meal was contingent upon finding a sack of dope or the escaped convict’s whereabouts. It disturbed him that he’d gone to such lengths, but deep within, he felt he had reason to do so. Less than ten minutes after letting go of his crazy notions, he was back in Henderson’s mix…

  That didn’t take long…

  In less than an hour, Ace knew Henderson’s wife’s name. Rebecca. He knew what she looked like, too. The lady reminded him of a younger version of Diane Carole, an actress his mother seemed obsessed with during her younger years. His son, Earlwood Jr., was a splitting image of his father, only thinner and an inch or two shorter. The youngest daughter, Claudia, also favored her father but had their mother’s eyes, though she had a feminine frame, like her older sister. She was a sorority girl, pretty, but didn’t have that breathtaking beauty of her older sister who also wore far less make-up. The entire family appeared perfect, much to his skeptical chagrin. He focused on Earlwood Sr. a bit more and discovered some interesting tidbits.

  For starters, he found out how much money the tycoon made, which he didn’t actually care about but the information simply fell into his lap. The client rolled in the dough. As he suspected, the man could more than likely purchase his share of expensive wares, and surely didn’t want for anything. The man also enjoyed a summer vacation in Australia every now and again and attended an African Methodist church. He tithed quite generously, so much so, he’d received a plaque of recognition. Not a scratch or blemish to his name, Henderson appeared to be the shining star in his community, giving back to the less fortunate.

  Furthermore, Henderson had a love for football, hung with some ‘good ol’ boys’ with graying hair, but he more than likely handled any of their innate insensitiveness with aplomb and refinement. The battle scars showed clearly on the man’s face. In other words, Henderson had been through some shit. Of this, Ace was certain. Whatever it was that he was hiding would not be written in a document, typed in an article or stamped across some paper. He realized that now, loud and clear.

  You need to stop this and focus on the girl…the woman. You’re wasting time…

  He’d spent several weeks going to town on this case, collecting information, and it was time to get focused again. Standing, he stretched and walked over to his small stereo system across the room. He was ready to dive in, to get his fingers wet, make his head swell. Searching through his antiquated CD collection, his thumb landed on the song he wanted to hear during his late night adventures…

  ‘Chop System’ by System of a Down.

  As soon as the hook started to spin, he couldn’t resist doing his head banger move, while clutching his invisible guitar.

  “WAKE UUUUP!”

  ~***~

  …Several hours later

  Ace balanced the laptop on his bare, reddened knees as if he were a gymnast. He couldn’t get quite comfortable under the sage green sheets and comforter. Punching his pillow with an iron fist, he made a reasonable indent to comfortably lie his head on. He had come up with nothing on Lynne Henderson. The other investigators were correct; she’d vanished without a trace. This is where most detectives called the client and told them, ‘So sorry, can’t find her. Your invoice will be in the mail.’ But this was the part where Ace’s juices got flowing and his lion heart got to roaring. He relished dead ends. Dead ends meant you had to be brave enough to look over the cliff, to stand there, teetering on a possible fall to your death. It was exhilarating. Besides, he had reason to take the risk due to fundamental science. No one just vanishes. That goes against the basic laws of physics. He detested school, but he paid attention enough to at least realize that vital principle. Once something was created, it lived, moved, and could never be fully eradicated.

  “Ugh…” He shoved his computer off of his lap after noting the time.

  2:59 a.m.

  I’ll go to sleep then get back up in a few hours…

  He reached over and cut the light off, then found a comfortable position on the cool sheets .Feeling the cold, he deliberated leaving his comfy cocoon to turn up the heat, but soon, tranquility set in and sleep knocked on the door. How unfortunate that it was short lived.

  3:17 a.m.

  “Damn it!”

  Ace flung the sheets off of his body, exposing his wrinkled, off-white cotton pajama pants and bare chest covered in a sheen of perspiration. The silver chain around his neck felt cool against his skin. Placing his hands over weary eyes, he fell back against his darkened wooden headboard with the embedded mirror, his heavy breathing loud inside of his ears. Scratching his temple, he sighed, his mouth dry as if he’d been sucking on ash lozenges all night. The nightmares never got easier. He’d had them since he was a small boy, and they only intensified over time. He never discussed them with anyone, and now, as an adult, he was convinced they interfered with his work performance. How could he be at his optimal level without a decent rest? He couldn’t have that, but what could he do?

  “Shit!” He reached over to his nightstand, pause
d as he peered at the curtain-covered window, the wool in his brain thinning as time passed. Grabbing his glass of water, he took a big gulp, then opened the drawer to retrieve an Ambien sleeping pill.

  I fucking hate this shit…

  He popped it in his mouth, took another swallow of warm water and slumped back down onto the bed.

  I’m so sick of this…

  Ace wasn’t certain if this was his rock bottom or not but he did know one thing: Something had to be done. But that would mean admitting his life was out of control, that things had gone too far. He wasn’t sure he was ready to ask for help, but another day and night filled with dread would be too much to endure. In the darkness, he felt around the sheets until he latched hold to his computer. Although he’d be asleep again soon, his mind was doing odd things as the medicine started to take effect. Feeling as if in a soft bubble, he fumbled around anyway, searching, thinking…He was back on the case.

  What if the trail has stopped in Chicago, not because she is dead, like some of the other investigators assumed, or moved on some sort of way. What if she is still here, but under a different name?

  He had new gas in his mental tank! Amped and fired, his mind reared to go. He told the Sandman to go to hell as his brain worked overtime and kicked that desert-made motherfucker out of his way. He applied a sophisticated program to age her photo, making her look just as he imagined her to in modern day. This was a typically grueling process that easily took a couple of hours but in his haste to beat the clock of slumber, he stumbled through it, getting as far as he could while his eyelids got heavy. Somehow, he made it through.

  There she is…

  He looked the damned thing up and down, pleased with his handiwork.

  She is really a looker…

  Before he knew it, the game was over. Everything went black and he slumped down on the bed with her image clearly imprinted in his mind. He fell asleep, drifted into a soft, fuzzy world of sublime darkness, one without nightmares, only the aura of a beautiful woman with eyes that reminded him of a doe’s.

  Beautiful, dark eyes that sparkled…beautiful, was she…

  ~***~

  CHAPTER FIVE

  “This is absolutely ridiculous!” Brooklyn shook her arm loose from Ivy in the crowded hair salon, which was chock full of expensive aerosol hair sprays, elaborate pink leather chairs and enough zebra print to freak out the gaudiest of glamour queens. “I’m not doing it!” She crossed her arms like a little child and glared at the empty chair that awaited her as if it were a tomb of death.

  “Get…your…butt…in…that …chair!” Ivy spat between gritted teeth in her ‘mama’ voice as she pointed to the damn thing. Most bosses would’ve fired their employee on the spot for this sort of treatment, but the thought never entered Brooklyn’s mind. Ivy did good work; she was bossy, at times insubordinate, and a pain in the ass, but she was loyal to a ‘T’ and had Brooklyn’s best interest at heart.

  Before Brooklyn could give another brat-like performance in protest, the meaty woman with the brain of a prodigy and the strength of a pro-wrestler flung her ass in the glossy chair, so fast she almost caught whiplash.

  Here she was on Michigan Avenue, being bullied by a woman she thought was her best friend, as well as her assistant. She didn’t take too kindly to it. Ivy knew what she needed, but Brooklyn wouldn’t be true to herself if she didn’t give her a hard time. It simply had to be this way.

  “Now,” her friend huffed as she addressed the seemingly astonished hairdresser with a big, lipstick-gooey grin on her face. “We want an up-do, something elegant like this.” She waved a magazine photo around. “Maybe a few wisps of hair framing her face.” Brooklyn looked up at her friend from her throne-like seat and gently traced her chin with the edge of her index finger as she began to accept her current state.

  The hairdresser nodded and turned Brooklyn in various directions, studying her like a project gone wrong.

  “Honey,” the hairdresser whispered as if about to divulge a secret. “I will be honest. You’ve got a lotta split ends, your hair is thick and unruly.”

  “Is this how you speak to your clients? Tell them their hair is thick and unruly?” Brooklyn huffed. “I knew my hair was thick, but thank you for the newsflash.” If she couldn’t take her angst out on Ivy, then someone by golly was going to get the wrath.

  “I like to be honest is all, didn’t mean to offend you.” The hairdresser smirked. Brooklyn could feel the insincerity bleeding loud and clear. “Are we keeping your hair natural, or do you want me to flat iron it? Give you a relaxer, or what are we working for here?”

  Brooklyn struggled in her seat. She didn’t want her hair cut. The kinky mass reached down to the middle of her back and on the rare occasion that she took a flat iron to it, her length check showed it touched the top of her ass. She coveted her nappy tresses, and wouldn’t have them permanently altered under any conditions, even to receive this award. The thought of her hair being shorter, processed, dyed and fried made her blood boil. She snatched her glasses off her face and struggled with the customary scrunchie that had kept her hair in a dense ponytail for several years.

  “I don’t want it short, and I don’t want it permed or relaxed. If you use heat on it, please use a protectant.”

  “Of course. First, let’s get you washed and conditioned.” The stylist attempted to run her fingers through the coarse mane. “You gotta lot of hair,” she repeated, “… and some damage due to dryness, but I have to hand it to you, this stuff is gorgeous and for someone that doesn’t do much with it, it is in fairly good condition. I will need to teach you about moisture and sealing your ends though, honey. I have to detangle this a bit and cut off a few inches, because they are damaged and will hurt your length in the long run.” The stylist shot Ivy a glance. “No lie, this is going to take me several hours, sweetie. You may want to have a seat or go shopping or something.”

  “Okay, I will.” Ivy slung her cocoa brown Coach bag over her shoulder. “She’s got an important evening tonight, so work your magic…I’m sure you’d have to be damn near Merlin to make this mess work!”

  “I’m sitting right here, Ivy. Don’t talk about me like that! Anyway, do I get a say in this?! How dare you speak of me in third person?” Brooklyn seethed, not really upset but simply nursing a need to defend herself, regardless. Both women ignored her, making her feel even more dejected. The stylist spun her around, faced her and tilted her head ever so slightly as if they were about to have girl talk, sister-to-sister.

  “Brooklyn, never fear. I work well with natural, black hair textures. I just needed to know up front what was expected and you needed to be told realistically what needs to happen.” She turned back to Ivy. “Now, while she is in the curlers, I will send her over to get her facial and make-up on, then they’ll do her nails last.”

  Ivy shook the hairdresser’s hand as if they’d closed on a house.

  “Deal!”

  ~***~

  Ace leaned over in the chair, patting his foot impatiently. This was the first day in months he hadn’t gone to his office to work. He repeatedly looked up at the clock in the doctor’s lobby. Soft music played, putting him in mind of being in some grocery store circa 1983, and it grated his damn nerves. Some guy with sallow skin and a navy shirt two sizes too large sat next to him, fidgeting and flipping through a women’s magazine as he mumbled incoherent things and twitched about as though ants lived in his wrinkled pants.

  I’m a fucking freak. I made an appointment with a shrink. Why am I even here? Look at this fucker over here! Jesus Christ! Insane!

  He shot to his feet, ready to bolt out the door, when a woman approached him. Her thin lips appeared to be drawn with a magic marker — bright red against pale, white skin. Her upturned nose reminded him of a cartoon character, and a bright yellow sweater stretched across a pair of enormous breasts. All in all, she appeared more sweet than harmless.

  “Mr. Blackstone, Dr. Rose will see you now,” she announced in a soo
thing voice.

  Ace looked back at the exit in the manner of a lover beholding the object of his affection.

  So close…yet so far.

  He grunted and nodded in her direction as she led him away into a back area that offered three different offices with closed doors. They navigated the hallway; walking between warm, mellow beige covered the walls. Soft instrumental jazz tunes played and delightful paintings of flowers hung, carefully placed, along the corridor, making his walk of shame a tad bit less irritating.

  “Right this way, Mr. Blackstone.” She knocked softly on a light oak door with a tag to the right of it that read, ‘Dr. Rose’. Ace shoved his hands in his slouchy jeans pockets and looked from left to right, nervously moving about as if he were tardy for something crucial but couldn’t escape the clutches of his pending fate.

  “Come in,” came a soft, masculine voice.

  Ace chuckled internally. The man sounded a bit like ‘Mr. Rodgers.’ He imagined seeing a trolley pass by, and the puppet King Friday marching up to him offering to give a tour of his tiny castle. The woman gripped the doorknob and pushed, exposing a scene he didn’t expect. There behind a desk in a dimly lit room framed with two large plants and snow-white curtains over the window sat a tall, thin man who resembled his father. The resemblance was actually uncanny, haunting, and slightly comical. A lump caught in his throat. This must’ve been some act of cruelty, a joke played on him by God himself.

  Nice touch! Goin’ to spill the beans to my father’s doppelganger! For Christ’s sake! This morning can’t get much worse…

  “Please.” Dr. Rose pointed to a comfortable looking cream-colored chair. “Have a seat.”

  The woman disappeared, leaving them alone. Ace had adopted her as a blanket of protection — the person that kept him in the ‘real world’ before he entered into this surreal land of ‘brain shrinkers’. He second, third and quadruple guessed his decision to be there in the first damn place, but he willed himself to stay put. Clearing his throat, he plunked down in the chair, running his hands nervously up and down his thighs so much, he expected them to catch fire any moment.