Serpents Rising. David A. Poulsen
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talking to a man who looked, sounded, and moved like an old man, but who, I guessed, was maybe forty, not more than forty-five.
Cobb said, “When you saw Jay a couple of days ago, did he happen to say where he was staying?’
“Don’t think so.”
“Are you sure?”
“Pretty sure.”
“And you don’t have any idea where we might find him? Where he sleeps at night when he’s not here, who he hangs out with?”
“Not enough room in here.”
“Yes, sir, I understand. Do you know where he sleeps when he’s not here?”
Pause.
“Nope.”
“Mr. Morris, it’s important that we find him. Jay could be in some danger, some bad people are looking for him. You have any idea at all where we might find him?”
Morris shook his head. No pause this time. Definite.
“Anyone else you can suggest we might talk to? Someone who might know where we might find Jay?”
“There’s always kids in and out of that place at the end of the hall. Maybe one of them.” He turned back to the window. The interview was over.
“Thank you, sir,” Cobb said. “We appreciate your time.”
Morris didn’t answer and we left him and stepped back into the hall. I closed the door gently behind us. Cobb didn’t say anything but led the way back down the hall.
Cobb held the flashlight out in front of us, allowing the light to illuminate the last door at this end. It was covered in graffiti art. Someone had talent. There were a few lines of poetry gracing the door’s surface — or maybe it was prose — that mostly seemed to be exploring creative ways to adapt the word fuck to different parts of speech.
Cobb knocked, got no answer. He didn’t bother to wait this time, pushed the door open, and let the beam of the flashlight work its way around the room. “Anybody home?”
Again there was no response so he stepped inside just far enough to let me move up beside him. We surveyed the main room. Stuff, a lot of it, covered most of the floor and a couple of makeshift tables that occupied the centre of the room. Two mattresses, clothes strewn in heaps on both of them; four chairs, none of them matching; several garbage bags, all of them crammed with something, garbage or possessions — it was hard to tell which.
There was more graffiti on the walls, and paper, sheets of loose leaf and a couple of pads of lined paper, several battered paperbacks, and an even more battered Bible lying amongst the rest of the stuff. The room didn’t look or smell bad, really. I’d seen friends’ teenagers’ bedrooms, and this wasn’t all that different. Too much stuff, none of it actually put away — chaos but not filth.
We walked around the room, looking for … I wasn’t sure what. I picked up some of the pieces of paper, more of the kind of art we’d seen on the door and walls. Same artist maybe. One scrap of paper was a note that read,
Zoe, please come home or at least call. Your Dad and I love you and we’re going crazy not knowing where you are and if you’re okay. Please, please call or send an email. We just want to hear from you.
Love
Mom and Dad
No way of knowing how the note had got to Zoe, assuming Zoe was one of the residents of the place, or whether she’d answered it.
Cobb and I worked our way through some of the stuff, but while there was lots of it, most of it clothing, there wasn’t much to identify the occupants of the place or offer much help with our search. Again another room, this one with a door. It was open and I glanced in — more stuff, possessions that defined the word meagre. Stacked and stashed in an attempt at order.
After maybe ten futile minutes, Cobb said, “Let’s get out of here. I’ve had enough.”
Neither of us spoke until we were outside. It was dark by then and I was instantly aware of a different look to the street. Different sounds too. It seemed even less friendly, more serious … dour. It wasn’t a place I’d have wanted to be by myself. Cobb looked up and down the street, rubbed a gloved hand against his jaw, then turned to me.
“Any more ideas as to where we might look?”
I shook my head. “No, and I’m sorry I haven’t been much help up to now.”
Cobb looked at me. “No apology necessary. If finding missing people was easy, I’d be out of a career.”
“I guess.”
“I’m bagged. I say we call it a day and start again in the morning. Are you game for another day of this?”
“In for a penny, in for a pound,” I said.
Four
We started in the direction of the car but had only gone a couple of steps when a girl crossed the street coming our way. She was carrying something bulky and paid no attention to us, probably deliberately. She passed us and looked like she might be heading for the back of the building.
I decided there was nothing to lose. “Zoe?”
She slowed, almost stopped, then picked up speed. Turned the corner of the building.
“Zoe.” I called again and started after her, Cobb right behind me.
As we came around to the side of the building, I thought we’d lost her. Black night, no illumination here from the street’s lone streetlight. A shadow moving just ahead.
“Zoe?”
She kept going, now around the back of the building.
Cobb said, “We just want to ask you about Jay Blevins. He’s in trouble and we need to find him. To help him.”
We came around the corner and she had stopped right at the hole in the wall entrance. The tiny amount of light from the interior of the building was enough to let us see her face.
I’d have put her at seventeen or eighteen. Pretty, or could have been with a little attention to her appearance. Her clothes were thrift store head to toe. Her light brown hair, what I could see of it, was a maze of tangles; a scarf haphazardly covered the rest. The bulky item she was carrying was a garbage bag. There was no way of knowing what it contained.
She was looking at us. More angry than scared. Or maybe pretending to be tough. “Stay right there or I scream and fifteen guys will be down here to kick the livin’ shit out of both of you.”
Fifteen guys. She might have been able to rustle up three or four, counting the cat, but I didn’t think pointing that out would improve our chances of getting information from her.
“You don’t have to do that. We’re trying to find Jay. It’s important. If you could help us —”
“What kind of trouble?”
“I … what?”
“You said he was in trouble. What kind of trouble?”
Cobb answered. “We think some people might be looking for him. If they find him, it could be very bad for Jay. He doesn’t know, at least we don’t think he knows, that he’s in danger. We need to tell him and help him if he’ll let us.”
“How do I know you’re not those guys, or cops, or guys his parents have sent out to bring him home?”
“I guess you don’t. We can show you our ID if that’ll help. I’m a private detective. Jay’s father hired me to find him. But not to get him to go home, just to keep him from getting hurt by the people I mentioned. This gentleman is a journalist. He’s helping me.”
“Jay doesn’t want to go home.”
Cobb shook his head. “Like I said,