“Perfect,” he said, sealing the swab. “And now I just need you to sign this paper, down here. To tell the dentist that he can check your Q-tip, okay?”
“The dentist?” She looked perplexed but took the pen willingly enough and signed her name, the signature a faint, loose shadow of its old self. How many times Casey had practiced and faked that signature, he cared not to guess. Probably as many times as he’d been sent home with detention slips.
“Thanks, Mom.”
“Come and watch the news,” she said in that unnerving ethereal voice, and patted the cushion beside hers. “There’s so much happening in the world.”
He eyed the screen, the logo of the shopping channel in the bottom corner. “Wish I could, but I have to get to the post office, then back to work. But Nita will be here soon. She likes the news.” Or barring that, great deals on faux-sapphire jewelry.
“Yes. Nita.”
He bent down and kissed her cheek, the sensation leaving him cautiously proud these days—not as unsettled as it had at first, when he’d come home. He was growing used to how her skin felt now, how she smelled. His mother was gone and she was never coming back, but he could do his duty, pay his respects to the living, walking effigy she’d become. “Bye.”
In the kitchen, he sealed the cups and papers up in the padded plastic envelope that had come with the kit, preprinted with express postage. Last step, drop them off in a mailbox. Last step until the time came to hear the results. He swallowed, stomach souring. Blamed it on two cups of black coffee and no food.
“So when do you hear?” Vince asked.
“Soon. They’ll schedule a call after this makes it down to fucking Palo Alto.” Casey tossed the instructions and the scraps of plastic wrap and the box in the trash, then made for the door. “Later, motherfucker. Say hi to Nita and Kim for me.”
“Will do.”
He pulled up at the post office, said a little prayer to a god he had zero right to be asking any favors of, and dropped the box into the slot. And with that, there was nothing more to be done on that front except wait.
As he hit the road once more and aimed himself east, he couldn’t say if he’d expected to feel lighter or heavier with that package turned over to fate. What he did feel for sure, though, was surprise. Surprise that he’d just pulled the trigger like that, when he was pretty certain that even a week ago he’d have found a hundred reasons to procrastinate on the task and let that package collect dust on some shelf. Things had changed, in recent days. He’d changed, though in exactly what ways, he couldn’t yet say.
He had two phones on him this morning—his relatively public one that the Desert Dogs and Abilene had the number for, then the shady untraceable one that Emily and his other bygone business contacts—and now James Ware—had. And he knew which was ringing now from the mere pitch of the buzzing at his hip. If it was Ware, the guy had one fucking massive nerve on him.
Casey swerved to a hairy stop at the shoulder of the quiet highway and killed his engine, whipped the phone out. Private, as always.
“Yeah?”
“It’s Ware. I’m ready to talk.”
Casey laughed into the bright morning light, steam rising. “Oh, are you? That’s fucking hilarious, considering how shy you got last night.”
“’Scuse me?”
“Who told you where she was staying?”
“Listen, Grossier, I got no idea what you’re talking about. I’m just following your fucking orders here. You going to facilitate this shit or what?”
“You tell me which motherfucker told you where she’s at, and maybe we’ll find out.”