So I went home, packed a duffle bag with a few days’ worth of clothing, and hopped in my SUV. I drove straight out of town and headed south, intent on doing something for Cat that might help her regain her identity. It’s a long shot, but I don’t have anything but time on my hands.
I thought about flying because I hate long drives, but then immediately discounted it for two reasons. First, I needed space from Cat and I needed it at that moment. Probably couldn’t have caught a flight out last night and that would mean a potential run in with her at the apartment. She needed the space to figure things out as well, so I knew driving the ten-plus hours would do the trick. Secondly though, and most important, it gave Bridger time to do what he needed to do.
As soon as I hit the road, I called him and told him I was going to find Cat’s father. He seemed neither surprised nor skeptical of my actions, but just asked what he could do to help. I told him I needed to first find Cat’s mom because she was the only one who knew who he was. Cat told me her mother said he abandoned them and she didn’t even put the name on the birth certificate.
No clue if that’s true or not, but I’m going to find out.
Bridger also showed me why he’s got the respect of everyone in The Silo, and why people turn to him when their troubles get too much to handle.
“I’m heading back over to The Silo now,” he’d told me last night. “I’ll keep an eye on her for you.”
“Let her do what she wants to do,” I told him, even though the thought of her fucking someone there made my stomach knot up.
“You got it, brother,” he replied. “And for what it’s worth, you’re doing the right thing.”
“Going to find her father?”
“No,” he said solemnly. “Letting her figure herself out. Only way it’s going to work between you two.”
The words were a small comfort as I traveled mile after mile to Nevada. But even his wise words started to dull when I saw Vegas come into view around eight AM. I went straight to the Bellagio and checked in.
Pulled my clothes off and fell on the bed in an exhausted heap.
Sleep came easily despite my worries.
When I woke up around five, Bridger had sent me a text with Trish Lyons’ address and two additional words, Good luck.
After a quick shower and a room service meal, I got my Suburban from the valet and headed out of town to hopefully get the information I need.
I navigate the neat rows of trailers, all fairly well-kept with underpinning and permanent decks built on although they all have some age on them. As I pull up to Trish’s home, I see a silver sedan parked perpendicular to the porch steps, and I hope it’s hers. I’m prepared to camp out and wait if it’s not, but I’d sure like to get this over with because I doubt it’s going to be pleasant.
I park behind the silver car and shut my engine off. As I open the driver’s door, I see a flutter of movement at the window so I know someone’s definitely in there.
By the time I exit my SUV and hit the top porch step, the front door is opening, leaving the screen door in place as a barrier. I assume that’s Cat’s mom staring out at me, but I can’t be sure as they look nothing alike. This woman is shorter than Cat by several inches and has thinning blonde hair that’s pulled back into a bun. Her skin is overly tan and although she can’t be more than mid-forties, the damage from the sun creates an almost leather-like look that adds hard years onto her.
“Can I help you?” she asks in a voice that’s unfriendly and brusque.
“Trish Lyons?” I counter.
She could deny it, but I can tell by the look on her face that it’s her. Still, she plays dumb. “Depends who’s asking.”
I don’t have time for this shit. “My name is Rand Bishop. I’m a friend of your daughter’s. I want to find her father, and I want you to tell me his name. I’m prepared to pay well for the information.”
Her face morphs from skepticism to interest the minute I mention money. Her hand shoots out, and she pushes the screen door open. “Come on inside and we’ll talk.”
I step inside, pleased to find the interior cool. Her house is well kept but a little worn. Carpet and furniture looking as if it dated back to Cat’s childhood days. I glance around and don’t see a single picture of Cat and while it doesn’t necessarily surprise me, it does sadden me. This woman hasn’t minded taking money from Cat over the last several years but she doesn’t care enough about her to even have her photograph on display.
“Would you like something to drink?” she asks me as I follow her into the kitchen that sits right beside the living room with a short, half-wall divider between the spaces.
“No thanks,” I say.
She sits at the small, round table in the center, nodding at the chair opposite of her. I take a seat, lean back, and clasp my hands on the table.
“How much money are you willing to pay me for the name of Cat’s father?” she asks, her eyes now gleaming with the possibilities.
“Ten thousand,” I say, ready to haggle with this woman. She’s going to try to squeeze everything out of me, no doubt.