chapter Twenty-three
“Any progress?”
Eric was still in the kitchen when Casey returned. Papers with scribbled notes lay scattered on the kitchen table, and his eyes were bloodshot and watery.
“My ear is numb, and I’ve lost the ability to explain who I’m looking for, and I think I might have forgotten why I’m making all these calls in the first place.”
“Maybe you’re confused because you’re hungry.”
His jaw dropped. “I forgot all about lunch.”
“Which is why I got some.”
“You?”
“Yes, me. I do have the ability to walk and carry a bag at the same time.”
“I didn’t mean—”
“I know what you meant.” She pushed some of Eric’s papers aside and distributed two large salads, two carry-out containers of chicken noodle soup, and a loaf of French bread.
“This can’t possibly be from the gas station.”
She laughed. “Not a chance. But grocery store delis, now, they are a wonderful thing. Do you want to eat here, or should we take it outside?”
“Definitely outside. I think I’m suffering from cooped-up-ness. And yes, that is an actual medical term.”
They sat on the back steps and ate, only inches from each other. Casey was aware of the heat of Eric’s leg, even though they weren’t touching, and the brush of his arm against her sleeve. She ordered herself to remain where she was, and to act like a grown up about it.
“So, how was the dojo?” Eric said.
“Dojang. Dojo is Japanese.”
“And dojang is…”
“Korean. I study hapkido, which is a Korean martial art. If I studied aikido or judo, or if I wanted to be a ninja—” she grinned “—I’d go to a dojo.”
They ate quietly for another minute.
“So, how was the dojang?” Eric said.
Casey stirred her soup. “Humbling.”
“Forgotten how to do things?”
“Apparently.”
“You look in shape.”
“I am. Physically. It’s the mental part the master seems to be worried about.”
Eric nodded. “I can see that. But did you tell him you were committed to being nicer now? Maybe that would help.”
Casey sipped her soup. “Didn’t get around to that. Guess I should have, since he’s convinced I don’t know what I’m doing.”
“About what? Ricky?”
“Life.”
“Ah.”
Casey tossed a bread crumb to a squirrel, who took it and scampered away, like Casey was going to change her mind and try to steal it back. “You would get along with him well.”
“How come?”
“You both think I’m hard to be around.”
“Maybe he and I should get together and talk. Except I’d be afraid of him.”
“Why?”
“Isn’t he the one who taught you to…do what you did?”
“In Ohio? You mean, kill people?” Eric had been there. He’d seen her fight, had seen the man die.
Eric looked deeply into his soup. “That’s not exactly what I meant.”
“Of course it is.” She gazed up into the trees, where the rusty leaves let patches of sunlight through in moving patterns. “I wish you hadn’t seen that. I wish it hadn’t happened. But it did, and we probably ought to talk about it sometime.”
“I don’t need to. It’s over. I told the police it was self-defense because I really believed it was.”
“You were right. It definitely was. I never…I didn’t want to kill anyone. Ever.”
“Then why the hapkido? Isn’t that basically training you to…well, kill people? Or at least fight them?”
“No, it’s a defensive art, not an offensive one. And seriously, how many people—Americans, especially—do you see going around using it in bars or whatever? And I don’t mean in the movies. It’s more an art form—or an exercise. It’s great for getting in shape, and for your frame of mind.”
“Then why not just do aerobics? That’s exercise. That should release the seratonin—isn’t that what’s supposed to be released?—and make you a mentally healthy person.”
Casey shuddered. A week earlier she had been the aerobics instructor at an exclusive club, and the seratonin definitely hadn’t been flowing there. “Hapkido isn’t just an exercise. It’s a way of life. A way of looking at things. Awareness. The ability to see the whole of something and not just a small part. Stability. Self-assurance.”
“You have all those things?”
“I used to. That’s why today was so humbling. As soon as I stepped on the mat I felt focused, but the moment I was off and it became about life I lost it all.” She shook her head. “I’ve failed my master and hapkido as a whole. Or hapkido has failed me.”
“Maybe not. Maybe you would be a complete loss if you hadn’t had your training. Maybe hapkido really did save you, after all. Did your teacher tell you to stay away?”
Casey remembered Master Custer’s back as he left her on the roof. “No. But he didn’t encourage me to return anytime soon, either.”
Eric put his empty dishes aside and stretched out his legs. “Looks like you’re stuck with just me, then.”
“Yeah, looks like it.” Casey stabbed some lettuce with her fork and took a bite because she felt like she might laugh just a little. Or maybe cry.
Eric’s phone rang in his pocket and he took it out, looking at the screen. “Texas area code. Hello?” He listened for several seconds, then said, “And how long ago was this?” He made a motion like he needed a pencil. Casey hopped up and ran into the kitchen, returning with paper and pen. He scribbled madly, saying, “Uh-huh. Uh-huh. Okay. And what was his name?”
Casey tried to read over his shoulder, but she couldn’t see around his arm, and he waved her out of his space.
“And you were his what? Cousin? Niece. Her cousin. All right.”
Casey stuck her nose over the paper and he shoved her aside.
“I’m just trying to find her family. No, I’m sorry, that’s all I can tell you for now—”
He listened for a bit, biting his lips together.
“I’m in Colorado, and a woman with that name died and we’re trying to find out about her family. Actually, the woman was using another name entirely, but there seemed to be a connection with an Elizabeth Mann.”
He listened some more.
“I know. It could easily be someone entirely different. No, no, I don’t think you should come up. At least not yet. I’ll send you a photo.”
She squawked on the phone.
“No, no,” Eric said, “I have a nice picture from before her death, so it will be….Good. Do you have an email account or something where I could send it? Right. Got it. I’ll be in touch when I find out more. You have my number. And I’m sorry. Good-bye.”
He hung up and took a shuddering breath. He’d gone pale.
“What is it?” Casey said. “What’s wrong?” She grabbed the paper, but couldn’t make sense of his handwriting.
He took the paper back and laid it on his thigh, smoothing his hand over it. “ At least one Elizabeth Mann grew up in a little town called Marshland, Texas. This woman—Betsy Lackey—was her cousin.”
“Lackey? How did you know to call her if her last name’s not Mann?”
“I didn’t. I left a message on her father’s phone, and he gave her the message.”
“Did she know why Alic—Elizabeth came here?”
“She didn’t know she was even in Colorado. Had no idea where she was. If this really is her. We have to remember that. We could be talking about someone completely unrelated to Alicia.”
“What about the guy? You were talking about a guy.”
“This Elizabeth Mann’s father. Cyrus Mann. If we have the right person, it could be the man in the photograph we got at the restaurant.”
“Is he still there in Marshland?”
“No.” Eric let out a breath and shook his head. “He hasn’t been there for over seventeen years. And neither has Elizabeth.”
“Seventeen—Why so long ago? What happened back in the early nineties?”
Eric lifted his eyes from the paper, and Casey winced at the pain she saw. “Cyrus Mann was murdered,” he said. “On the same night his teenage daughter disappeared.”