Page 27 of Power of the Mind
“Money talks.”
“It’s wasteful.”
“It gets fast results.”
“So will this.”
“And what happens if Mackie’s not home and his mother wants a pamphlet, a business card, or something as proof we are who we say we are?”
I waved a dismissive hand. “Then we tell her we didn’t bring any packages or forgot them in the car. We can leave her my number and tell her that if Mackie wants to contact us, we can discuss it in more detail.”
“And if he doesn’t contact us?”
“Why wouldn’t he contact us? It’s an opportunity of a lifetime.”
Diem stared, unblinking.
“Fine. If he doesn’t contact us, we go to the school tomorrow, wait for classes to get out, and catch him when he leaves the building.”
Diem shook his head like I was a lost cause at this detective work. “That’s perfect.”
“Thanks.”
“Excellent plan, Scully.”
“You sound sarcastic, and why do I have to be the girl?”
“Nothing creepy about two gay men in their thirties lingering outside a high school, waiting for little boys to leave so we can roll down our windows and offer them candy and a ride. Sounds like a good way to get arrested.”
“See, you’re a Negative Nancy. And shame on you, Guns. How dare you age me like that? I am a young twenty-six. Nowhere close to thirty. Although I feel it some days,” I mumble-added. Particularly when Memphis dragged me to Gasoline, and it was crowded with barely legal college students. “Besides, you make it sound worse than it is.”
Diem deadpanned.
“Okay, fine. I see your point. But the original plan is still good, so cross your fingers Mackie’s home and we don’t need a plan B.”
Faint hints of humor returned to Diem’s eyes as he waved to the building. “Lead the way.”
“Call me Mulder this time.”
“No.”
“You suck.”
In the end, we didn’t require my stellar acting skills or excellently crafted script at all. Mackie was home alone, chilling and eating a wholesome dinner of Ruffles sour cream and onion potato chips—he answered the door with powder-coated fingers and the family-size bag under one arm.
The instant he heard we were opening an investigation into his sister’s death because we believed his suspicion that Amber had been killed through mind control—the unrelenting bear who lived behind Diem’s ribs grumbled—Mackie was quick to toss hismeal aside and usher us out the door as he licked sour cream and onion potato chip dust off his fingers.
“We can’t talk here, yo. Mom will be home in, like, twenty, and she’ll go cray if she knows why you’re here. Let’s go to the pizza joint across the street. I’m starving.”
Mackie Wells was one of those scrawny teens who likely ate his mother out of house and home without gaining an ounce of weight. I’d been the same at sixteen. Although my prepackaged food and takeout diet hadn’t changed, I consumed significantly less than I did as a growing boy.
I could tell Mackie was a swimmer or a track star but visualizing him on a field playing football was a hard sell. He was matchstick thin and lacking anything resembling muscle definition. One hit by a linebacker would break him in half or land him in the emergency room.
Diem didn’t say a word as we followed Mackie across the busy street and into the pizza parlor.
“So, you’re, like, detectives or something?”
“Investigators,” I replied, squaring my shoulders at the title.