Lost and Found Read online

  They placed their orders with the same hair-of-many-colors gal who’d seated them and sat back, companionable and comfortable in one another’s presence. Aside from the difficulty of being heard over the din, Flynn was grateful Clara was the kind of friend he could just be quiet with, even when it wasn’t necessary. He’d read somewhere that the best relationships were measured not by what you talked about, but by the level of comfort in your silences.

  And then Flynn saw him.

  At first he wondered if he was hallucinating. But hallucinations were for those with a more tenuous grip on reality than Flynn had. Visionaries and lunatics whom, honestly, Flynn sometimes envied for being out of touch and thus free.

  He touched Clara’s hand on the table gently, as though to touch her harder might cause the man to disappear, like a deer spotted in the forest. Or like a mirage, or a magical unicorn that might go up in a puff of sparkles and smoke. She looked up, a dot of maple syrup on her chin, a question in her hazel eyes.

  Flynn nodded to the red-haired man rushing from table to table, plates balanced expertly all along the length of each of his freckled forearms. His smile was broad. His eyes darted everywhere.

  “That’s him,” Flynn whispered, realizing there was no way Clara could have heard him.

  But she must have read his lips because she swiveled in her chair to look. When she turned back to Flynn, her mouth was open in surprise. “The redhead?” she shouted, loud enough for not only Flynn to hear, but for everyone else in the restaurant too.

  Flynn nodded. “The one. The only.” Flynn tracked the redhead’s movements, wanting to shout out “Hey, Mike!” to see if he would respond, because Flynn didn’t believe for a second that was his real name.

  “What do you want to do?”

  What did he want to do? Should he get up and confront him? Here? Now? Amid all this hustle and bustle? Make a scene? He looked up at the clock mounted on the soffit above the open kitchen space, where three cooks toiled endlessly over their stoves. It was just past two o’clock. Crumpet Strumpet closed at three. He had a thought.

  “We could linger. Stay here until they close.”

  “And then what?”

  Clara reached out with her tongue to snag that offending drop of maple syrup, and in a flash, it was history. Flynn was surprised to see she’d downed her short stack and all her bacon. He’d barely begun on his own breakfast.

  “Talk to him.”

  Clara reached over, broke off a piece of Flynn’s crumpet, and popped it into her mouth. She chewed and then said, “And what? Have him deny that Barley’s yours again? Flynn, we need a better plan than that.”

  And Flynn, still staring at the redhead, felt a wave of helplessness rise up and wash over him. What could he do, really? He had no proof the beagle was his. He’d always intended to get Barley microchipped but had never gotten around to it. Now he was kicking himself once again for tuning out the vet tech when she suggested how quick and painless it was and what good insurance a microchip could be. He could remember her saying “If he ever gets lost and someone brings him in to any vet’s office or shelter, they can scan him and immediately get him back to you. Presto!”

  He always thought he’d have time to do it later, have the money to do it at some future date. In Flynn’s world, at least back then, one didn’t lose one’s dog at Discovery Park on a sunny afternoon. Barley always came back when he was called. Always.

  Except when he didn’t.

  Flynn shut his eyes and caught his breath for a moment as his mind went back again to the nightmare of a day when he’d lost Barley—the hours and hours of what seemed like combing through endless forest, calling out for him over and over, until his throat was raw and his voice nothing more than a hoarse shadow of its former self.

  Flynn stared down at his plate, no longer hungry. He looked up at Clara, knowing if she could read anything on his face, it would be either despair or pleading, because both emotions were there in spades.

  Clara eyed his gorgeous, perfectly poached eggs and half-eaten crumpet with something like lust. Flynn, despite himself, grinned. He shoved his plate toward her and watched as she dug in, as though she hadn’t just downed three pancakes and four slices of crispy bacon.

  “Are you just gonna eat my breakfast, or do you have a better idea?”

  Clara chewed thoughtfully for a moment and then said, “Not really.” She took another bite. “Well, maybe. How about this? We wait, like you said, but instead of talking to him, we see if we can’t follow him home. Of course, that won’t work if he has a car and drives away, but if he’s like most waiters his age in our great and overpriced city, he most likely can’t afford a car and a place to live.” She scooped up a forkful of runny yolk and a little white and chewed. “These are insane. I think instead of poaching in water, they poached them in butter. Anyway, if it works out right and he’s on foot, we could follow him home. Get the 411. Once we do our surveillance, we can decide what to do. Information is power and all that.”

  Flynn eyed the redhead for a moment, and their gazes at last connected. Red seemed surprised to see him. He actually held a plate intended for a customer, an older guy in a black beret, above his head for a second or two too long, staring. It wasn’t until Beret Man tapped his forearm that Red got back to work. By then the spell was broken, and Flynn had a feeling that Red would make it a point not to look his way again.

  Flynn reached into his back pocket and pulled out some bills. He threw them on the table and said, “Let’s get out of here. We’ll find where the employee entrance is, and we’ll watch that. Okay? That is, if you got enough to eat?”

  Clara belched in response. A couple of heads swiveled to regard the delicate young flower.

  Flynn shook his head. “Can’t take you anywhere.”

  THERE WAS a back entrance behind the restaurant. A rusting metal door opened onto an alleyway. It was from there, Flynn and Clara decided, their quarry would emerge, unawares, to lead them to his lair.

  Flynn had no idea what to do with the information they’d glean from this expedition. Even if all went well and the guy was on foot and he led them to an apartment building, house, or yurt a few blocks away, what would they do then? The only thing Flynn could think to do was, again, talk to the guy.

  Or maybe Clara had it in mind to kidnap the dog when they got their chance? Flynn actually didn’t mind the idea so much, outrageous as it was. After all, Barley was his, and taking him back wasn’t really stealing, was it?

  “What do you have in mind?” he whispered to Clara. “A dognapping?” He laughed to show he wasn’t serious, but oh, he was. The two of them leaned casually behind a dumpster that smelled charmingly of rotting fruit and motor oil. Perfect for a summer’s day….

  They weren’t exactly invisible. Unless he was blind, the guy would see them the moment he emerged from the restaurant, so why they were standing there, rather than someplace with more breathable air, was a mystery. Maybe Clara, whose idea it was, thought it made them somehow more covert.

  She punched his arm. “Of course not! That would be illegal, silly. In the eyes of the law, dogs are property. You take someone’s property, that’s stealing.”

  “Well, he took my property!” Flynn protested, and he thought quite reasonably. “So that just leads us back to talking, which is what I suggested in the first place.”

  “But you were planning on doing the talking. You’d probably handle it with no finesse at all. Just like at Green Lake. Now, if you were smart, you’d let your good friend—and attorney—Clara handle the discussion.”

  “What? You’re going to intimidate the guy?” Flynn snickered. The redhead was rather diminutive, but he was still bigger than Clara. And Flynn had serious doubts that anyone would take her seriously as a lawyer. Still, he had failed at Green Lake. Perhaps Clara would have better luck. It felt good to put things in her hands, anyway. At work she was always the one everyone counted on for innovation and getting things done, even if the tasks were oft
en well above her pay grade.

  “I’m not going to intimidate him. I’m just going to make him see right from wrong.” She paused. “That is, after I determine that you’re right.”

  Flynn’s mouth dropped open. “You think I’m mistaken?”

  “I don’t think anything, sweetheart. But I was with you at the shelter when you first got the little guy. I went to PetSmart with you for half the Saturdays when he had obedience training. When you wanted to run off for the weekend to Portland with that drummer from the punk rock band, I took care of him. I will know if this is our dog—or not.”

  “Our dog?”

  Clara grinned. “I love him like my own.”

  Flynn felt a warm burst of affection for his friend. She really had loved Barley as her own and treated him like a doting single aunt would treat a favorite nephew. Half the treats and toys Barley had once owned were brought to him by Clara. Whenever she dropped by to visit, Barley’s tail wagged so fast at the sight of her, it was a blur. She referred to the condition as Barley’s “hummingbird tail.”

  “You can’t be objective,” she said. “You want it to be Barley so bad you might be making yourself see things that aren’t there. Trust your Clara to see things clearly.”

  And it looked as though they were to have the opportunity to “see things clearly,” because they both jumped as the metal door across the way swung open, releasing a gaggle of laughing employees, one of them the redhead. He was talking to their waitress when he looked over and spotted Flynn and Clara. Head down, he hurried away. On foot.

  “Good plan. We’ll be super secretive, like spies,” Flynn scoffed, starting after the young man.

  They followed him to Sixty-Fifth Street NE, where he turned left and headed toward Green Lake, which was at the bottom of a hill, just a few blocks away.

  He cast several nervous glances over his shoulder along the way, but each time, Clara would force Flynn to talk to her, making it look, Flynn supposed, as though the two of them were deep in conversation and not even aware they were tracking the redhead. Just a mere coincidence, them happening to go the same way as him.

  It all seemed so silly, but if it meant that somehow, some way, he’d get Barley sleeping at the foot of his bed again, Flynn didn’t care.

  The moment of reckoning came sooner than Flynn expected. He realized he’d been very naïve in thinking this would go on for very long.

  The redhead suddenly stopped, turned, and faced them, his hands on his hips. He didn’t look happy. His appraisal of them was a glare, sour. “Sucking a lemon” was how his mom would have described it.

  “What are you two doing? Are you actually following me?” He squinted at them, as though he doubted his vision. “I mean, really.”

  Flynn opened his mouth to protest. He was all ready to say something idiotic along the lines of “It’s a free country. We just happened to be going the same way as you.” Or “Don’t flatter yourself. The lake is this way, and lots of people are headed in this very same direction.” But Clara stopped him by placing a hand on his chest, signaling him to keep quiet.

  Flynn was curious what she would do or say as she moved away from him and close enough to the redhead that their noses were almost touching. Flynn crept closer to hear.

  “As a matter of fact, we are following you.” She smiled. “But don’t get the wrong idea. Neither of us thinks you’re hot.”

  Flynn would beg to differ, as he’d always had a massive weakness for redheads—even thieving, lying bastards who were keeping his sweet pup against his will—but he maintained his own counsel.

  “No, I think you know why we’re trailing you home. You and my friend ran into each other the other day at Green Lake, right?”

  The guy opened his mouth to deny it, Flynn was certain. His gaze flicked nervously from Clara to Flynn and back again. He had the worst poker face Flynn had ever seen.

  “Uh, I guess so.” He ran a hand through his hair and then stared down at the sidewalk.

  Clara let out an impatient sigh. “So I don’t have to recap what was said? About a certain beagle in question?”

  “I told him the dog was mine!” he snapped.

  “And my friend, my client here, told you that Barley was his. Correct?”

  “Whatever. It’s my word against his. How can you ever prove anything?”

  Flynn could actually watch as the redhead’s pale skin went paler. It looked almost as though he were getting nauseous.

  Clara stuck out her hand. “My name is Clara Brown. I’m legal counsel for Mr. Marlowe here. Are you aware of Washington State statute number 365.7?”

  The redhead shook his head.

  “That particular statute refers to the ownership of domestic animals.”

  Clara drew in a breath, and Flynn couldn’t repress a smile as she literally puffed herself up with self-importance.

  “The statute states that stealing an animal, be it cat, dog, or hamster, from its rightful owner is a felony, punishable by a fine of up to $10,000 or up to three years in prison.” She paused for effect. “Or both.”

  The redhead was the same shade as one of those puffy clouds drifting by above his head. It looked as though he was having trouble swallowing. What a bullshit artist Clara was! Flynn couldn’t believe the guy was buying what she was selling.

  But he appeared to be. And that gave Flynn hope.

  Clara let her shoulders relax a bit, and she smiled. “Look. I don’t want to make a big deal of this. Flynn here is also my best buddy. And I’ve known the canine in question for all of his life. As a matter of fact, I helped Flynn pick him out at the humane society.” She shrugged and put a gentle hand on the redhead’s shoulder. “We only want what’s right for the dog. I’m sure you do too.”

  Flynn watched as tears welled up in the redhead’s eyes. And then watched as he turned and began running down the hill.

  “Oh, goddamn it!” Flynn shouted. “Now you’ve scared him away. This is ridiculous.” He took off after the redhead and Clara both.

  Chapter 5

  MAC RAN about a block before he stopped himself. The guilt inside was like a physical thing, a presence squeezing on his gut, making him sick. He simply halted, expecting the pair to crash into him from behind like some sort of slapstick comedy routine, although there was nothing funny about what was going on.

  He closed his eyes, waiting for the running feet to slow and stop as well, waiting for all their breathing to return to normal.

  Mac turned back, his hands up like the criminal he felt he was. “What do you want?” he whined. He wished they’d just go away. But he was resigned to the fact that they weren’t going anywhere and that he’d have to deal with this situation with Hamburger sooner or later, whether he liked it or not, for better or for worse. Even if dealing with it meant his own heart would be ripped in two.

  Clara said, “We just want to take a look at the dog. That’s all. I can give a second opinion. I know Flynn’s dog Barley very well. And maybe he’s wrong. We’re prepared for that. But he’s missed his little guy so much, maybe there’s just some wishful thinking happening on Flynn’s part. That would be understandable. I assume you’re headed home?”

  Mac nodded, feeling like he was backing up to a precipice. He didn’t know which footstep would send him hurtling over the edge. “Yeah,” he said, a little out of breath. “I rent a room in a house on Green Lake Way.” He closed his eyes. He felt as though the couple were staring at him. Well, of course they were staring, but staring with dislike, disgust, whatever. And maybe all that was just Mac himself, projecting his own feelings of self-loathing.

  He looked to the guy, Flynn, he’d encountered the other day on the trail. Their eyes met, and Mac noticed how the guy had a little chip missing out of his front tooth. It was an odd time to take note of such a thing, but it made Mac feel better. The guy had seemed so perfect, all Irish black hair and blue eyes, the body of an Adonis, dimples, everything. The flaw humanized him and, in a way, made him sexier.


  Why are you even thinking such a thing? Mac yelled at himself on the inside. The dude’s obviously here with his girlfriend. He felt bad all over again about deceiving him. Mac wasn’t ready to tell them the truth about Hamburger—he just couldn’t bear the thought of it, because surely that would be the end of his relationship with the dog, and sometimes Mac thought he loved that creature more than he loved himself—he could at least own up to some of his own truth.

  “Your name’s Flynn, isn’t it?”

  The guy nodded, and his eyebrows came together in obvious confusion. “Mike, right?”

  Flynn peered at him suspiciously, and Mac realized he probably had never believed any of what he’d told him. Mac had always had a terrible face for lying. Every emotion was always cast there in sharp relief. It was both his blessing and his curse.

  “No,” Mac mumbled. “My name’s Mac. Mac Bowersox.” He scraped the toe of his Converse on the sidewalk. “Maybe you misheard me. Mac, Mike, Max….”

  “Sure,” Flynn said stiffly. “Are you gonna let us come and see the dog or not?’

  Do I have a choice? Mac wondered. Of course he did. One always had a choice. He could be an asshole and simply refuse. Stand his ground. Try to be a baby and just run from them again. He shook his head. “The house is, uh, just around the corner down here.” He gestured toward Green Lake, which shimmered innocently in the summer sun just below them. Mac thought there should be storm clouds gathering above the water. He turned away from Flynn and Clara, trying to mentally prepare himself for what was to come.

  He felt sick to his stomach as he neared the old Craftsman house he lived in with Dee, gray with white trim and black shutters. He noticed things about it suddenly. Like how the house looked a little run-down, in need of some tender loving care. Weeds sprouted from cracks in the concrete front steps. The windows had a layer of dust on them. The screen door at the front had a tear in it. I should fix all those things, he thought, hoping maybe he could make up for what he was about to do to Dee. Dee loved Hamburger as much as he did, although the old woman would never admit it. But he’d seen the way she looked at Hamburger when he curled up next to her on the couch as she watched her daily afternoon hour of Judge Judy. She’d pet his head and scratch him behind the ears. When she stopped, Hamburger would put a reminding paw on her arm, not letting go until she petted him some more. She’d roll her eyes and pretend she was annoyed, but Mac could always see the joy she got from this simple game.