We Find What Is Lost: A Novel of the Terribly Acronymed Detective Club (Book 1)

Chapter Seventeen: Al, Saturday

Al's cheek still felt hot whenever he thought back to the day Rachel kissed him. Even though they were twelve and it was innocent enough, it was still the first kiss he'd ever received from a female who wasn't his mother, and it had awakened in him a fascination he'd carried for her until they'd moved away.

He thought he'd discarded that infatuation thirty years ago, but when he'd held her earlier this afternoon, he'd discovered a remnant of it still remained. Not that he was interested in a relationship with her; that haunted look in her eyes kept those thoughts at bay. Getting drawn into her orbit would expose him to all the slings and arrows that had flown at her, and he didn't think he was ready for that.

His little apartment in a Brow-of-the-Hill low-rise was a testament to his desire to remain free of any social encumbrances. All of its decor proclaimed that a cat had taken up residence: the scratched orange vinyl wingback chair; the scratched leather ottoman; the ramps up and down the walls; the toys littering the floor; the litter box next to the washer and dryer; the food dishes, hard and soft, and water dish in the dining room.

The master of the house greeted him with an admonitory yowl when he entered the apartment. He was a handsome domestic short hair, brown tabby with white bib and boots. 

"My apologies, Samson," he said. "I ran late. My mother, you know. I'm a little worried about her. She's going to need me more over the next few years, which means I'll have less time to spend with you, I'm afraid."

Absurdly, he felt like he wasn't telling him everything that was worrying him, as if the cat could even understand what he was saying, or give two shits if he did. He didn't know why he held back on telling Samson about his reunion with Joe, Sunny, Lauren and Rachel, though. It was of no consequence to the cat, anyway.

Samson yowled again, but it wasn't in response to his explanation. Al was late with dinner.

"I know, I know. Jeez, you'd think I starved you for a week."

A scoop of hard food, a quarter of a can of soft food, and Samson was satisfied. Al checked his water and made sure to scoop his litter before he settled to his own dinner.

He watched the news as he ate, raising his eyebrows at a weird story of spontaneous combustion. A bizarre end for someone in a basement. Preventable, though? Again his thoughts turned to Danny Trybek and his sad, lonely death. Was that really preventable? Was he destined to die early anyway, and had their intervention only postponed the inevitable?

Why had they never kept track of Danny after his father was arrested? They were kids, and kids took for granted that grown-ups always made things better. But they didn't, and it took becoming a grown-up himself for Al to realize adults didn't know what they were doing anymore than kids did, they just did a better job of pretending they did. Al chuckled at that word, pretend. A word kids used all the time, and something they thought grown-ups never did. A word adults never used, because they used a word loaded with more ill purpose: lying. They lied when they told kids that everything would be better, then came up with an idea like foster care.

But they'd failed in their responsibility to Danny, too, regardless of what his mother had said. They'd befriended him, and they'd even talked about making him a member of the Lawrence Street Detective Club, even though he hadn't lived on Lawrence Street. When kids made friends, those bonds were sacred. Whether they'd intended to or not, they'd broken that sacred bond.

It was too late to make it up to him now.

He cleaned up after himself and changed into his sweats for a relaxing evening. Just as he was about to sit on his couch, which miraculously was not scratched (something about the fabric must not have been pleasing to Samson), his phone chimed with a message.

Odd, he wasn't expecting to communicate with anyone this evening. Unless Mom had more to say to him, but she didn't use text, she was still a traditional phone caller.

He picked up his phone and looked at his screen. It was a message from Lauren, of all people, on Messenger:

We're helping Rachel. The LSDC is back together.

Two sensations competed for supremacy in Al's body upon seeing those words. The first was that stomach drop that came right when he was at the top of a roller coaster and about to make the first steep descent; that feeling of knowing he was being committed to a course he didn't choose for himself, that he was on the ride and couldn't get off before it whipped him around and turned him upside down.

The second was a tingle that began in his chest and spread throughout his body. That old thrill he'd felt when he and his friends were about to set off on their bikes again on a new case, to find what was lost, to right a wrong. He'd rarely felt that thrill since he'd moved away from Queensborough, and hadn't even known how to describe it until he was a little older and watched the movie Field of Dreams. In it, the main character, Ray Kinsella, was about to drive out of Boston, despondent, when his headlights suddenly fell upon the imposing figure of Terrence Mann, played by James Earl Jones, oddly enough the voice of Darth Vader (also one of his favourite action figures to play with), although he hadn't known that until later. As soon as he'd watched that scene, Al had felt that old tingle, felt the hair on the back of his neck rise.

All these years later, Al repeated the words that came booming out of Terrence Mann when those headlights fell upon him:

"Moonlight Graham!"

Sure, it was just a name, although the name itself suggested a mystery of its own. It was what the name represented that made the moment a turning point in the movie. It meant that Terrence Mann saw the same vision Ray saw, that Ray was no longer alone in his quest, that now he had a friend and a travelling companion who could share the burden of being a witness to the unexplainable, the Voice that had shown Ray the vision of the ballpark he built to bring back Shoeless Joe Jackson and the White Sox, and was commanding him now to find a little known ballplayer who'd died a long time ago.

The quest Lauren was asking them to make would have just as many pitfalls, maybe more, than the one Ray and Terrence experienced. But knowing they were on that quest together made it not quite so scary.

Al repeated the name again, like a talisman, and responded to Lauren's message.

What do you need me to do?

A minute went by before she responded.

Stand by. This is going to take some time, and all of us will have a contribution to make. For now, have a think about what you're good at, and soon we'll get together and strategize.       

Thanks for reading this far! It seems Al's infatuation hasn't entirely gone away, even though Rachel's almost a stranger after thirty years apart. Now that Lauren's getting the gang back together to help Rachel, he'll have to be careful not to let his heart get broken. To see how successful (or not) the LSDC was as a money-making venture, click on the "Continue reading" button. If you like what you read so far, hit the "Vote" button. If you didn't care for the Field of Dreams imagery, you can always leave a comment, and I'll try not to feel bad.