Chapter 7

Seven

D an e

Hearing Detective Muse say my given name stirred a longing in me. He spoke it as if he knew me. He should have frightened me. Cops weren't always trustworthy, in my experience. If you had long hair, they made assumptions, but this one didn't seem to have any negative opinions, at least not that he was saying.

I needed a break. And a smoke. Desperately.

"Hey, Detective, man," Ryan said. "Give him some space. Please."

I hated the position I'd put Ryan in. When the detective mentioned Ryan was released from parole, I felt awful that I'd dragged him into my mess. I knew how hard it was for folks who'd done their time or paid their dues and still had to walk on eggshells for fear of being hooked up again.

There'd been a time when Laurel Canyon was crawling with undercover officers trying to get invited to parties. They'd hang around the general store and try to talk to the people who'd become like family to me. They'd ask to crash, and it got to the point where people like Tess and Cass had to be careful who they brought home. Mom had even cut back her herbal deliveries. Once I turned 18, she'd refused to let me make them anymore. "Too much heat," she'd say. "You don't want to end up in prison, baby. I won't let you."

The detective stood from the couch, where he'd sat right beside me, his knee nudging mine. I popped up, too, and maneuvered around Ryan.

"Did you bring smokes? I could really use one."

The detective's shoulders slouched a little and his expression crumbled."Of course. I'm sorry."

He was unlike any cop I'd ever met. He seemed to genuinely feel bad for asking me questions. He was also surprisingly handsome. Nothing at all like the men I'd been attracted to in the past, but then again, they'd paid me no mind. He was so focused on me, it was both exhilarating and terrifying. Would he believe me when my whole story was out? And if he knew who I really was, what else did he know about me?

Kal went to the kitchen and hurried back. He handed me a pack and a book of matches.

"I'll go out back, Ryan. I'm sorry, I gotta light up."

"Hey, man, I get it," Ryan said with a kind smile. "I've been there. Don't worry about it."

I nodded and looked to the detective. "You can come. I can keep talking once my nicotine levels are back up."

The corner of his lip quirked, and he followed me. He was taller and broader than me, but not as big as Kal. The detective looked tired. Dark circles shadowed his face but his dark-brown eyes were bright and alert. He'd likely been up since he'd heard about the thing at the rest area. I'd slept most of the day.

I smacked the pack against my palm and then tore it open, shoving the trash in the pocket of the new jeans Cherish had brought me. I needed a belt eventually. They were so loose I had to keep yanking them up on my hips. I tore a match out of the book and flipped the cover backwards, pulling the match head against the strip. It flared to life, and I felt better already. The first inhale burned a bit, but the nicotine hit my bloodstream and sent a rush through my limbs, waking me up, reminding me that I was still alive.

"Where are my manners?" I held the pack out toward Walter, and he shook his head.

"No, thank you. That's one habit I haven't picked up."

I sucked in another hit and felt myself relaxing. Finally. "You have others?"

The detective shoved his hands in his pockets and chuckled, looking down at his feet in a strangely shy movement."Butterfinger bars. Driving too fast." He looked up. "An obsession with the past."

"The past? Any particular time period?"

He stood taller and pegged me with his dark-eyed stare. "The sixties and seventies. Up 'til nineteen seventy-nine, to be exact."

"That's pretty specific," I said, feeling the tremors back in my hands. There had been times after I arrived at the carnival when my hands would shake uncontrollably. Made it hard to do my job. Mr. Ame noticed once and he laid a hand on my shoulder, telling me not to worry about it. It hadn't troubled me again. Not until that man showed up at my booth.

"It was a pretty incredible time."

I nodded. "Until nineteen seventy-nine."

"Yeah."

He continued to stare at me, and I took a few minutes to finish my cigarette and light up another one.

"Been a while since you've had one?"

"Can't remember, sometime before I left the carnival. Can't remember much. Comes in waves."

He nodded."Dane, I'm so sorry."

I blinked at him. "Why are you sorry? You call me Dane like you know me."

"I do know… Dane Donovan. At least his case file." His expression was full of sorrow. "My father was the detective assigned to the missing persons case of Dane Donovan. He searched for him. Followed every possible lead. It drove him—" He sighed and planted his hands on his hips again. "I became a detective twenty years ago and lobbied to have the case assigned to me. I've done everything I could to find him since."

My eyes burned with tears. "Here I am."

"And I'm trying not to ask you a million questions."

I smiled and blew out a puff of smoke away from him. "I'll answer what I can."

"I saw you. At the carnival," he said, his voice softer than when he'd hit me with all those questions inside. "My father insisted I couldn't have seen Dane Donovan at the carnival, and I believed him. Until now."

I squinted at him. "At the carnival?"

He nodded. "When I was ten years old. You wrote me a poem. I didn't put it together for sure until now that… well, that I saw you at the carnival." The detective cleared his throat and recited words that resonated through me.

" Here, there, any old where

Exists a carnival without a care

Behold, beware, a wild grizzly bear

A place where creatures frolic and dare

Welcome children, come and share

A magic, a wonder, a splendid affair

Your luck, your skill, or a wild sort of hair

Make your own way at this mystical fair

And when you leave for places elsewhere

So does the wondrous carnival, without a care."

"Detective," I breathed, a tear sliding down my neck. I recognized those words. I remembered the boy, especially the look on his face after his father appeared. The guy was… unstable, is the nicest way I could describe it. The boy was caught between being embarrassed by the fuss his father made and concerned for him all at the same time. A lot for a little guy. "You're all grown up now."

The detective's smile crumpled. "And you're not." His voice hitched.

"No."

We stared at each other, him standing four feet away, his body tense as if he was holding himself back.

He was nothing like the men I'd known, but I found him irresistible. Clean-cut guy of some sort of mixed heritage that gave him dark eyes and an olive complexion. His hair was nearly black with gray at the temples, buzzed close to the scalp, which few men in the '70s did; instead, they held on to their thinning locks as long as possible. But his mustache was all '70s, thick, neatly trimmed above plump dark red lips.

He wore a dark brown corduroy blazer over a mint-green dress shirt and patterned V-neck sweater vest. The shirt had been unbuttoned at the top, showing the tiniest bit of dark hair at the base of his throat and tanned skin. I wished I could see his wrists. I had a feeling they were thick. He filled out his clothes like he was in excellent shape and his hands were big. Khaki pants were pulled tight over his thighs and hips.

Previous me—well, when I was in my mid-twenties, the years before the bad thing happened—might have gotten up the courage to flirt with him, tried to make his cheeks pink so I'd know if I was the kind of person he was looking for, and then I'd throw him a few breadcrumbs and see if he came after me.It was so rare to have that opportunity, though. Tess insisted that I had to be careful if I wanted to have a career in music, so I was. I couldn't go to the places I'd started hearing about in West Hollywood, like Circus of Books, nor could I be seen at French Market or Studio One.

The shakes started up again.

"I shouldn't be here," I muttered.

"But you are here, Dane. Forget the fact that you should be in your late sixties right now and that you don't look it… what happened to you? Did you run away or did someone take you? How did you get away?"

I wrapped my arms around myself, taking care not to light my hair on fire. So many questions. "I didn't run away. I'd thought about it at one point, when yet another disappointment in my music career happened. Pull a Connie Converse, just drive off into the sunset." I flexed my hand, feeling the scars stretch across my knuckles. "No, someone took me. I did not go willingly."

The detective stepped closer, and though my instinct was to flee, there was something comforting about his presence. He was listening to me. He hadn't arrested me or taken me off to the psych ward. Yet.

He took a deep breath and stepped one bit closer. I still didn't move.

"I've been looking for you for a long time," he said. "I feel like I should pinch myself. Maybe I'm still in bed, dreaming about you. Wait, that was… Oh God." He looked away—and there was that blush.

I laughed so loud, I think it startled us both as much as his admission, and he chuckled.

"What I meant was?—"

"They didn't catch the man who hurt me? Wait—you thought I left ?"

"No," he said, his voice hollow. "There was very little evidence at the scene, though, and some folks in law enforcement hypothesized that you had. Only your clothes were found, and your blood. No witnesses. My father followed up on leads for years. He had search teams looking for you in the area around the place for weeks. You just… disappeared. Into thin air."

I put out the second cigarette and would have grabbed a third, but I'd calmed down some. Not sure if it was because of the detective's presence or the nicotine. "I didn't see his face. I don't remember anything between what happened and waking up at the carnival."

"Were you with the carnival this whole time, then?"

I stared at him and frowned. "Would you believe me if I said yes?"

He shrugged and rubbed at his head. "I'd have to, I suppose. What other explanation is there?"

"Beats me."

He looked down at the ground again, and then lifted only his eyes. "Are you in pain? Your scars… did you get medical attention?"

"I'm not sure what happened, but someone took care of me. I'm okay. I can still play guitar. But I haven't been able to sing. My brain… it don't work right, not like it used to. And my hands…" I held them up and they trembled, but not nearly as bad as they did sometimes. "They don't always cooperate."

"I'd say it takes time, but?—"

"Time's passed. I haven't aged, but that don't mean nothing."

"Look, Dane. Right before Ryan called me, I got some information from a retired CHP officer that there were other cases like yours. We didn't communicate well back then between jurisdictions, and a lot of them were probably logged as missing persons and presumed to be runaways, but I'm going to meet with some folks and see what I can find. I don't know if the man who took you is alive, dead, in prison… but I won't ever stop looking, not 'til I find out what happened to you."

"I'm here now, though. It don't really matter anymore."

"It does matter. How many others did he hurt? How many didn't survive? How many parents are like your mother, living without knowing, without closure?"

Something squeezed so tight in my chest, it took my breath away. "My mom… have you seen her?" I stepped forward and put a hand on his forearm. "Is she okay?"

He smiled. "Just visited with her this morning. She lives in the same place, just up the road. She never gave up on you, refused to have you declared deceased."

"That's… sad. I feel so awful. Who took care of her all this time? If no one was there?—"

"A woman named Barbara lives with her. She's her assistant, has been as long as I've had your case. Handles all of her affairs. She continues to make art, although fine line work is tough for her now." He gave me a bashful smile. "I bought a couple of her paintings. She's so good."

"I'm glad she still has her art. Always was her best friend. Never failed her like a man. Never doubted her like her family. And I guess, it must've comforted her in her loss."

"She loves you very much, Dane. She's never given up hope that we'd find you."

"Here I am," I said again, with a sort of manic chuckle. "What do you plan to do with me?"

The detective's expression briefly morphed into something hungry. Carnal. Like maybe the clean-cut officer of the law was interested in me for more than my disappearance. How intriguing. Was he… like me? My imagination went wild in that moment. What might happen if I gave him an invitation? Would he want to have his way with me? Would I let him?

I wanted to let him.

But then he seemed to snap out of it.

I'd had to become really good at reading men back in the day. I was out of practice, maybe, but I was pretty sure the detective was like me, and liked me.

"You said you left the carnival to stop this man from hurting people. We can't help the man he murdered today, but Dane… I want you to help me catch him before he hurts anyone else. If it's the same man from the carnival, you know what he looks like."

I pulled out another cigarette and tried to light it, my heart pounding in my chest. My hands shook so bad, I dropped the match, and then the pack, and then the cigarette. The detective and I both crouched down at the same time, and he scooped up the items.

"Here," he said, handing me the cigarette, brushing it off first. Then he lit a match and held it out for me, cupping the flame as the cherry glowed red.

Those hands.

"I might swoon if you keep doing that for me, Detective."

He blew out the match and tossed it in a trashcan on the patio."I'm swooning just standing here with you." He was dead serious.

I pressed a hand to my chest, and he held up one of his own, taking a step back. I'd read the situation correctly.

"But that's not why I'm here. I'm here to help you, and, I hope, get your help too."

"Is that all you want?" I knew better than to push, but what did I have to lose? I'd nearly died. I was back in the canyon. Home… or at least it had been.

"I want to solve your case, and I want to catch this new guy." He rubbed at his jaw. "And… I want to know you, Dane. Beyond my professional capacity. I always wondered what I would say to you if I ever found you."

I grinned at him, though I was shaking so bad I thought the ground was about to open up. "You're doing a helluva job."

He reached out like he wanted to touch my hair, but then pulled his hand back. "I want to bring you home to your mother."

I took a long drag and narrowed my eyes at the detective."I'm not ready to see my mother. I don't know how you can help me other than to catch this guy, because I'll be a nervous wreck until he's caught. My life isn't worth saving if it means I led this man to hurt other people."

"I understand about your mother." He took another step back. "Honestly, I have no idea how I'm going to explain this to her." The detective looked out over the pool and yawned so widely, his jaw cracked.

"You need to crash, man."

He put his hands on his hips. "I'm all right. I don't think I could sleep now if I tried."

I finished the third cigarette, but the vibe was off now, like when you miss that perfect amount of caffeine or weed or coke to get you right where you want to be, and you're left wanting, jittery, disappointed.

That pretty much summed up my experience with sex, too.

Yeah, this man had me thinking about sex. Me, having sex with a cop. I'd have never heard the end of it from Tess…

1968

"How come I never see you with any of the girls here, Dee Dee?"

She gave me a hand-rolled she'd made from my latest herbal delivery. I took a hit and coughed. I was still learning. She took it back from me with a warm smile.

Sometimes I felt like I was her pet project. Over the past year, she'd dressed me up, made sure I got all the guitar lessons I wanted, and she encouraged me to keep a journal about whatever. She said songwriters had to have stuff to draw from, so I should start writing everything down. I was on my fourth notebook.

"Don't know. Haven't really thought about it."

Her eyes bugged out. "You're almost seventeen! Aren't girls all you're supposed to think about?"

My cheeks flushed, but I felt brave all of a sudden."What if I'm thinking about boys?"

I thought for a split second that I'd messed up as she stared at me, confused. Then she pulled me into a hug.

"That's okay too. Not everyone will understand, but I think you like who you like, man. Your heart decides for you." She pulled back but kept her arm around me. We were sitting on a giant piece of patio furniture that was like a big square. I'd seen interesting things happen on that square. "Let's figure out who you should talk to."

I tried to pull away. "No way, I'm not ready?—"

"Oh, come on," she said, holding the joint up for me again. I took another hit and sank into the cushions a bit. "At least let's figure out your type. Who catches your eye here?"

I laughed. "Well, Peter Tork, because he's always naked. It's hard not to look at him." I glanced around the backyard. Joni Mitchell and Graham Nash were huddled together, wrapped in a blanket, passing a joint back and forth. David Crosby was playing guitar and had four girls around him. I was pretty sure he was sleeping with all of them.

Then my gaze fell on the man who gave me the most butterflies.

"Gram."

"Gram Parsons? Really!"

I shushed her, and we both fell to giggling.

"He's dreamy," I whispered. "I never liked country until I heard him sing it. I could listen to him all night."

Tess snickered and took another hit. "He's cute, but you need to watch out for men like him. Life of the party, death to your heart. That type of man will break you in ways you could never imagine."

I watched her closely and wondered who'd broken her ? She always had a full house, everyone loved her, but she sort of haunted the place like a ghost, there but not touchable.

"Did you love a man like that?"

She sighed. "Too many of them. That's why I'm single." She took another hit and handed me the last of the joint. "Some of these men are so talented and yet they ride through life at breakneck speeds, flirting with their mortality. How many of us will be around when the seventies get here? The eighties? We're meant to inspire a generation, but I don't know. Sometimes I just want to take them all and shake them. Tell them to slow down. Absorb some of this life before they wind up in the next one. But everyone's gotta go their own way."

She exhaled a long time and her lashes were wet. When she turned back to me, she cupped my cheek."Find yourself a nice boy who likes poetry and movies and music, but who wants more out of life than this."

She kissed my forehead, and then decided she wanted to bake a big ol' cake, and did I want to help her? I always did.

2019

"Dane?"

"Hmm? Sorry, just thinking."

"About?"

"Cake. Do you like cake, Detective?"

He smoothed down his mustache. "I've been known to have a sweet tooth. But you didn't answer my question."

"What's the question?" I sidled up close to him, ready to drop those breadcrumbs. What a nice distraction he'd make.

"Can I see you tomorrow?" He looked at his watch. "Today? I should let you get some rest."

"Where do you live? Are you married? Do you have kids?"

He barked out a laugh and shook his head. "Suppose I deserve that. I have asked you a lot of questions tonight." He took a deep breath. "Bakersfield. Not anymore. And two. Boy and a girl, both in college."

Oh , he was older. Not technically. To him, I was nearly 70 years old, after all. "Anyone waiting for you at home?"

His brown eyes went soft. "I live with my mother, but she's got a caregiver with her this week. I'm supposed to be on vacation." He shook his head.

"Supposed to be?"

"I got in trouble for working too long without taking days off. I've been laser-focused on cases the past couple of years."

"Because of me?" Here I was, standing before another broken man, contemplating taking that ride. Oh, Tess. I guess I do have a type .

"Partly. But I've had a few other cases that I've been really involved with. A human trafficking ring, a murdered couple and their children. Lot of people behaving badly these days."

"Human trafficking?"

"Yeah. Big problem. Sometimes they're sex workers, sometimes they're immigrants brought here and forced to work for little to no pay under coercion and manipulation. We have a lot of vulnerable populations in Bakersfield."

"You want to save them."

He frowned. "I don't know if save is the right word. I try to help. Mitigate the damage done, prevent others from meeting similar fates."

"Okay, Detective. Let's help each other prevent those fates. Let's find this man."

His concerned expression softened. "Thank you. And let's make a pact to also catch the person who hurt you , or at least identify him. Then you can have the life that was stolen from you."

"Was it mine to begin with? If someone takes your life, is it yours anymore?"

"Dane—"

"I want cake, Detective. Let's go see what we can find." I tucked my hair behind my ear and smiled at him.

He might be broken.

But then, so was I.