Chapter 25

Veronica lowered herself deeper into the nearly horizontal seat of her father's Suburban, as she watched Logan with Jake at a soccer game through binoculars. She had tirelessly followed Logan for three days, and aside from taking Jake for fast food for dinner two nights in a row, Logan had done even nothing remotely criminal.

She knew she was jumping to conclusions, everything she had been trained not to do as an objective federal agent, based on tip-offs from her own subconscious and a would-be psychic. It didn't exactly help that she wasn't sure whether she was tailing him to prove his innocence to herself, catch him a felony act, or just stalk him out of lusty curiosity. And speaking of lusty curiosity, covert ops on Logan had its perks. Right now, in his tight grey Pan High t-shirt and forest green track pants, it wouldn't take a telescopic lens to note that he clearly didn't miss a day at the gym. Down, girl. His well-toned arms don't rule him out as a person of interest...for the case, that is...not your love life, or lack there of.

Something didn't feel right to her. She had been in this place before, and it pained her to know that she still just as confused as she'd been nearly ten years ago – she loved Logan to the point of obsession, but something within her didn't allow herself to trust him one hundred percent, and it was downright unsettling.

There were more than fifty teachers on staff at Pan High. But those teachers likely used their given surnames, not aliases. Those teachers would have been subject to background checks that might have turned up traffic tickets or petty crimes committed in their invincible adolescent years. Logan had a rap sheet a mile long and a nasty little genetic secret. How did he manage to even get an interview, let alone a job? Could Logan really have a different agenda – and not the 'person he appears to be' as Lilly had alluded?

Saying Veronica had a hard time trusting people was kind of like saying Charles Manson was just a little screwed up. She had had so many letdowns in her life; more people than she cared to admit had completely betrayed her or misrepresented themselves, starting with her very own mother. But Veronica decided as she studied Logan sprinting down the field, waving his hands like a crazy soccer dad, his eyes intently following Jake down the field, that although Lilly's cryptic message was a piece to the puzzle, she just wasn't interpreting how it fit into the bigger picture properly yet. She had a feeling if she studied all the pieces closely enough, maybe with the help of her friends and Jeanette, she would figure out what Lilly was really trying to say.

Veronica smiled to herself. Jake had scored a goal. Way to go, little guy!

The victory dance and proud papa smile from Logan was short-lived. Logan's face contorted, and his eyes turned to two cold, dark holes. Shit, did the ref just overturn the goal? Is there a penalty on Jakey? Hold it together, Logan. Don't get yourself ejected for unsportsmanlike behavior as a spectator.

Then Veronica realized that his eyes had forgotten the nail-biting game that was unfolding around him...because they were trained almost instinctively on her.

Veronica tossed the binoculars onto the seat next to her and practically crawled beneath the dashboard, hoping that she was having another bout of overactive imagination. Damn, Dad, these windows are tinted, right?

Veronica watched in horror as two knuckles wrapped hard on the drivers side window. Veronica, knowing there was no way out but the truth pressed the tiny button to bring the window down.

"What the fuck do you think you're doing?" Logan practically hissed.

Thank God he doesn't have a crowbar. We all know the kind of hurting he can put on a headlight, and I doubt Weevil is going to spring out of the bushes right now. And, the truth is, Logan would be less of a psychotic jackass and more along the lines of a totally justified father if he did just that.

"Logan," Veronica started, her voice cracking with remorse.

"Stop, just fucking stop right now. I think I've heard enough of your lame excuses to last me three lifetimes. I have your number, Veronica. I know what you are and what you're doing. It's called a stake-out, and in case you've forgotten, I used to keep you company on quite a few of those long, dark, lonely nights when you were waiting for the pay-off of the highly-elusive money shot. But, me? Seriously? At my kid's soccer game? What the fuck are you thinking?"

Logan's irate musings paused for one brief second before it connected; this case of peeping-tom was for business not pleasure.

"Wait, tell me you don't actually think I might have something to do with the disappearances of these missing girls? Under-aged girls, some of whom were my students?" Logan looked like he'd been kicked hard in the gut, but stopped pacing in wide circles, running both hands through his hair long enough to retreat to her window and hiss, "I could see ten years ago it looking bad with Lilly. You thought I was jealous. I came back from Mexico early and got Beav and Dick to give me a false alibi. I could even see if you didn't believe that I had nothing to do with Felix's death. I wasn't exactly sitting around singing kum-bah-yah with the PCHers. But this? This is un-fucking-believable." The rage that was emanating from Logan was of Duncan-like proportions, post-med flushing, after being accused of murdering her own sister.

"Please, Logan, let me explain. There's more that-"

But her pleas sounded pathetic even to her own ears. People were starting to gather in small crowds, necks were craned and ears were perked, eager for the punch that domestic drama packed that a three-year old soccer league's game didn't.

"Why is it that every girl I care about is so quick to assume the absolute worst about me? You really don't know me at all, and frankly, after this, I don't want to know a fucking thing about you either!"

"Daddy? Daddy, is that Ronnie?" Jake, sweaty and out of breath from running over but with the little cherubic face of an angel, was looking up at his father and Veronica uncertainly.

"Jake, come on, we're going back to your game," Logan said quickly while scooping up his son, but Veronica noticed that his voice was shaking, trying to tame the beast that had risen up inside of him. "Ronnie is not a good lady, and we're not going to be seeing her again." Without even a glance back, Logan and Jake departed. Veronica watched as their silhouettes became smaller and smaller before she hesitantly started the engine and threw the Suburban into reverse.

A day later on Thursday evening, five eerily quiet people sat in a circle around a dining room table adorned with a deep red tablecloth and several flickering white candles. The lights were dimmed, shades were drawn, and a laptop opened to a blank Microsoft Word Document sat opened on the table.

No one was yet sitting; everyone had the cautious stance of knees bent, fingertips resting on the back of the chairs, eyes wide, looking poised to jump into action and sprint from the room at the slightest sound.

"Is there anything else we're going to need here to do this?" Wallace asked.

"Um, I don't know...I think this should be good. I read on the Internet a lot of different information about what makes these types of things successful, but I guess the main thing is havin' a round table, a few people around it, and some dim lighting.

"I thought you said she was a professional, Vee," Wallace intimated quietly.

"Yeah, if we wanted a phony Miss Cleo we might have tried the Psychic Friends Hotline?" Dick stage whispered to Wallace.

"Gee, Dick, she doesn't have to even be psychic to read your mind. But maybe you could try holding your thoughts in? Make it a little more of a challenge for her?" Veronica spat out.

Jeanette's gaze nervously flitted back and forth between Veronica and Mac. "I've never done this before in front of a crowd. I'm a little nervous. I smoked a joint before I came just to mellow myself out."

Great, so if the dead start communicating that they want a bag of Doritos and some Twinkies, we'll know that it's just our burn-out psychic hallucinating and experiencing the munchies. Fan-fucking-tastic.

"Relax, Jeanette. I am not going into this with the highest of hopes. I just figured it was worth a shot. Just tell us what you want us to do."

"I'm going to sit in front of the laptop," Jeanette said, gesturing to the beaconing light of Mac's Mac. "I am going to reach out to Nieliz's spirit. If she comes through, ask the questions you want to know. I'll type the responses and we'll go from there. Don't expect to ask a million questions or to even have the time to read responses as they come through. Spirits sense of time is different from our own and they bore easily, so they don't like to be kept waiting. And please," Jeanette broke off, looking pained. "Please make sure that if you do make contact, you let her know that she is no longer with us. If she'd not at peace, her family never will be either," Jeanette warned ominously.

"Are we going to have a safe word?" Dick asked. "You know, if shit gets too creepy and your head starts doing a 360 on your neck, Exorcist-style?"

Jeanette paled visibly.

"It's okay, I'll just close the laptop if it gets too intense," Mac offered, but her logic did little to lighten the tense mood.

"All right, let's commence with the ghost whispering," Wallace murmured, rubbing his hands together.

As everyone took their seats, Dick went to grab Wallace's hand under the table.

"Man, what the hell are you doin'?"

"Haven't you ever seen in the movies how a séance is done? We're supposed to hold hands and chant something. Give me your hand, dude."

"Hell nah, brah. Chill with that shit and follow the script."

Jeanette began tentatively. "Hello, we are trying to communicate with Nieliz Robles. Nieliz, if you can hear me, please give us a sign that you're in the room with us. Nieliz?" The quiet cajoling went on for a few minutes, which was the only sound in the room because everyone was holding their breath and trying not to make eye contact with one another, for fear of the middle school giggles. "Excuse me, but Veronica, I don't think this is working. Is there another person you'd like me to reach out to? Perhaps one of the other-"

Jeanette's abrupt silence was marked by a ten degree drop in temperature in the room. She was no longer speaking or looking anxious; her mouth was slack, and her eyes were fixated on a patch of blank wall space over Veronica's left shoulder.

For all the quips in the world, Veronica couldn't wrestle one out of her mouth. Wallace and Dick were equally as speechless, so Mac took the initiative.

"Nieliz, are you here with us?

Slow deliberate movements of clumsy, shaky fingers plucked out three letters across the keyboard: Y-E-S.

"Nieliz, thank you for coming. We are happy to have you here with us. I'm Mac, and I'm here with Veronica, Dick, and Wallace. We wanted to ask you some questions. Is that okay?"

There was no movement from Jeanette, so Mac worked under the assumption that the previous answer still held.

"Nieliz, before Thanksgiving, you left PanHigh School and no one has heard from you since. People are worried for you. We believe you left against your will, that you were kidnapped. Is that true?

Again, there was no movement, and Veronica began to get worried that the fluke of the first answer was just the result of Jeanette being stoned.

"I think we need to ask her more than just yes or no questions," Veronica whispered under breath to Mac. "Do you mind if I try?"

Mac shook her head and with her eyes urged Veronica to proceed.

"Nieliz, this is Veronica. I have a question for you. What can you tell us about the day you went missing, particularly about who you were with? Nieliz, was he, or she," she added, trying to safeguard against the presumptions she had been making of late, "a teacher at Pan High?"

Confusion registered on the faces of everyone around her, aside from Jeanette's which was impassive. Yet, Jeanette's fingers assaulted the keyboard in rapid succession, so quickly that Veronica's eyes couldn't keep up with the tiny font that was appearing before her eyes. When she had finally stopped, she inched closer to peer over Jeanette's shoulder to find there was a quarter of a page of the document full.

"Keep going," Mac urged, "We can read it all more carefully after. Jeanette said when she was on a roll, it was better to keep the lines of communication open rather than to stop to read what's she's typed."

"Nieliz, where did he or she take you?"

Again, the typing commenced, and when Veronica looked up she was greeted by the positively white face of Wallace and the flabbergasted face of Dick, who looked like he was either shitting himself or experiencing an orgasm.

Veronica knew that if she had been reading along what Jeanette had transcribed, she could hone her questioning to have more precision, but this wasn't the typical witness that she could browbeat under hot, unforgiving lights in an interrogation room. She choose her next words carefully, as she knew that it would likely draw an end to discussion with the only person who might be able to shed an ounce of light on the kidnappings.

"Nieliz, six girls total have gone missing from Pan High, including Ophelia Navarro. We're able to communicate with you because you are no longer with us, in human flesh. In order for your spirit to be free, you need to accept that you are no longer walking the earth but allowing your soul to wander it. It's imperative that you know that your family and your community never gave up hope looking for you. And I promise with all my heart that I will put a stop to whoever hurt you if you please, please tell me everything you can that will help me put this sick fuck away for the rest of his or her life," Veronica's voice cracked, but she asked the last question for Weevil as much as she did for herself to assist the investigation. "Have you had any contact with any of these girls since your disappearance? And are you still in contact now?"

There was a hesitation before Jeanette typed out Nieliz's final response. Thank you, Nieliz, wherever you are now, thank you, Veronica added silently. And please, dear God let this information lead us to something useful that helps us to bring these girls back home, if that's still within the realm of possibilities.

"Nieliz?" They were greeted with silence. "Jeanette?" Mac asked tentatively of the woman whose eyes were still trained on the same spot on the wall that she had been staring at for nearly thirty minutes. Jeanette blinked a few times, and then her eyes refocused on the group of people sitting around her. She looked like an amnesiac patient from person to person before her eyes came to rest on Veronica, and then tiny, dim light bulb seemed to go off.

"Did it work?" she asked breathlessly, and then glancing at the computer, "Oh shit, looks like it."

Mac scooped up the computer. "Let me make hard copies so we don't have to all crane our necks to look at the screen, and we can make some notes in the margin if needed."

Veronica smiled in spite of herself, thinking about how great an asset Mac was, reminiscing about the long-forgotten days of sleuthing at Neptune High – "I do the gadgets; you do the espionage" still rang true of their newly forged partnership.

"Here, kids," she said, dropping a copy in front of each of them, "Read up."

What can you tell us about the day you went missing, particularly about who you were with? Nieliz, was he or she a teacher at Pan High?"

I am angry that I was asked to stay, but it is part of my obligation to serve others. And so I want to go home and help my mother prepare for tomorrow's dinner, but I stay to fulfill my duties. I say that I can stay just one hour because I have to walk to the bus terminal to catch the 4:45, and it is a little ways from school.

He sneers when he sees me. He doesn't want my help any more than I want to give it, but the teacher brokered the deal. I do not realize at this time the deal brokered was my life as I had known it thus far.

But when the hour is up, I pack my things and leave without the thank you that I don't expect. I am happy all the same because the time has passed and I am going home. And I think to myself I will request not to do this again because I have my own future to worry about. I don't know at the time that my future is not what I carefully laid out, many years in the making.

I walk through the doors down the small concrete steps and see that he's waited for me. He asks me if I need a ride, and I think of the impropriety of it all. But I accept. Because I trust so readily and am eager to get home. But I was wrong. I put my seatbelt on for safety. To ease the foreboding feeling in my gut. But it is too late. It is not safe at all.

Nieliz, where did he or she take you?

I am awake but I am not in the car. I am in a room. I think it's the hospital because it's so white and sterile and windowless. I know that it is all wrong. I am on a bed. I am in my clothes but they are torn and smell of sweat and fear. I know that I am no longer me. I have a new identity, or no identity, and I am scared. I don't know the day or the hour. It's impossible to know. I only count the number of sandwiches I am fed to guess that more than a few days have passed.

Finally I am taken out of captivity. But it's not him. This man is a stranger without an ounce of humanity. I can't even plead with him; he doesn't talk. He throws me into the back of a truck and it's dark. I am scared to look but force myself. I see highway markers and gravel kick up from the tires from the very small window but I can't guess where we are, where we're going. There are many large trucks. I try to look at the signs, but suddenly his hand is on the nape of my neck. I fear he might snap it on the spot for some wrong I am not aware I committed, but instead I am pulled by my hair from where I cower in the truck bed. His hand, large as my whole head, grips my neck, forcing my face down to peer at my feet. I think there is an exchange with another deep voice, but I can't make out what is said. Maybe I just don't want to.

There is a man who calls me Mary. Another calls me Baby. They are all the same. Conversational but only for moments until they become greedy. They talk to me but I can't force words past my lips because it smells of sweat, cigarettes, and days old fast food. I cry and confess my sins to God right out loud, but they get mad and hit me until I stop. Sometimes they just laugh. When it stops, I want to shower, wash my face, brush my teeth. But then I stop wanting that. I want the filth to collect on my body so they just leave me be.

And then it goes too far. And I think maybe there is a God, and he has the smallest amount of mercy on me. Because it stops.

Have you had any contact with any of these girls since your disappearance? And are you still in contact now?

There is no contact. I am completely alone. And you say I am gone. I pray for their sake, they are too.

In the time that elapsed, they all could have read the transcriptions ten times over, but the silence was palpable. No one moved, no one breathed. Dick was the first to break the silence, and for once Veronica welcomed it.

"I can't do this. I'm sorry, but I think I am going to bed." He rose from the table to face Mac, and something in his eyes hoped against hope that she was feeling the same sentiment and planned to join him.

When Mac made no such move, he crouched down to meet her face, and the empathy in his face made Veronica wonder if it was even Dick, he looked so foreign to her. He kissed Mac chastely on the lips and then the forehead, trying to erase the pain in her eyes.

"Dick, can I get you anything? A movie? Some tea? I have a nightlight upstairs if you need it." Veronica wasn't trying to be facetious, but he glared at her all the same. "Thanks, Ronnie, but I was rather hoping Mac would be joining me."

Veronica shut up, good intentions tossed aside to make way for Dick's pride.

"Sorry, Vee, but I'm with him. I thought I might be needed for some file-snatching...Or to go undercover as an overzealous senior who planned to major in math to bring down some college thugs running a Nigerian money scam...Maybe some errand-running. But this just ain't settling right with me either," Wallace admitted. He stood and put a hand on Dick's shoulder. They left the room without another word.

Jeanette was the next to speak. "Sorry, Veronica. I thought that this would give you more to go on. I guess I should have expected so much. A lot of what comes through from spirits can be hard to interpret."

Veronica was still reeling from what she'd learned. "It's fine, Jeanette. There's plenty to follow up on. This student she mentions," Veronica mused, "It appears Nieliz was tutoring someone before she left Pan. That student could have been the last one to see Nieliz alive. That student could definitely have something to do with her disappearance. Someone on that faculty knows more than they're letting on, if a teacher set up the tutoring session. I wish Nieliz had more specific with names or descriptions, but it confirms some of what we believed initially. Matt was clearly correct to suspect that these disappearances are related to human trafficking. It sounds like Nieliz went through something absolutely horrific."

"I'm not sure whether to feel heartbroken she is dead, or relief," Mac finally spoke. "I guess though that it means that we are still looking for the other girls, through, right?"

"I'd imagine that if they were gone and had suffered the same horrors that she did, she would have connected with them by now," Jeanette agreed.

Although the contact with Nieliz was cryptic at best, Veronica was unsure whether to feel grateful that she had more insight into the case or to let the somber cloud surrounding her envelope her completely.

"I think I should go. If I can be of any help..." Jeanette let the offer hang weakly. It was abundantly clear that she hoped that she would never see Veronica or her friends ever again.

"I'll walk you out," Veronica offered.

When she returned, Mac was nursing a Bud Light she had found hanging on for dear life at the back of Veronica's father's fridge, and there was one waiting for Veronica as well.

"What's next?" Mac asked, after pouring half the beer down her throat, in a very-un-Mac like manner. In two year of high school and another year of college, Veronica never knew that Mac had the honed the talent of being able to completely open her throat to deposit that much alcohol in her at one time. Must be Dick's influence. But Veronica knew she had misjudged the "softer side" of Dick Casablancas grossly.

"Is it okay with you that for tonight, I just don't know?"

"Yeah, I promise not to lose any respect for our fearless leader. But, I think it's high time I get myself to bed. I have a cute blonde waiting upstairs, and something tells me, I am in for a sleepless night."

"Goodnight, Q," Veronica said, opening the beer and saluting Mac with it.

"Yeah, night, Bond," Mac responded, setting her empty bottle on the table. "Get some rest. I think we're in for a rocky ride."

Somewhere between the eleven o'clock news and the semi-conscious thoughts of the impending but very much welcomed return of her father and Alicia the next morning, Veronica woke to the light tapping on the door of the front porch.

Veronica glanced at the clock on the microwave, with a sense of déjà vu washing over her. She'd been awoken once before after a high stress evening of being shot at and trapped in a freezer by her boyfriend's sociopathic father to a shadowy figure on her porch, and dimly wondered if fate would repeat itself again in the same manner.

"Veronica, hey."

She was greeted the well-built figure of... eighteen tattoos and a bald head.

"Weevil," she announced, rubbing the sleep from her eyes.

"Sorry, I know it's late."

"Nah, it's never too late for my favorite motorcycle-riding, gang-leading friend slash foe. What's up?"

"My niece wanted me to bring you this," Weevil said, handing her a massive envelope.

Gamely, Veronica pulled the embossed invitation from the crisp white envelope.

The Senior Class of
Pan High School
cordially invites you to
"A Night of Dreams and Promises"

Senior Prom
on Saturday, May 12th, 2013
at seven o'clock
in the evening
at the Neptune Grand Ballroom

Rendering speechless for the second time that night, Veronica looked up quizzically at Weevil whose face was slowing morphing into his easy-going trademark smirk.

"I know it's not your signature style – private party catering only the most elite of Neptune's high society. But, it is at the Neptune Grand."

"Oh I'll be there, Weevil. This is going to be a bitchin' party, and I'll be there with bells on, my friend."

This was a long, uncomfortable chapter to write, but since I committed to creating a case, I am trying to follow through with that and needed to set some groundwork. I am really psyched for the next chapter, which I have had in my head since conception of this story.