by David Beers
Vondi didn’t care because adrenaline was slamming against his veins. He might actually be onto something here, some way to figure this out. A private investigator in London could do things Vondi couldn’t, and then, depending on what he found out, Vondi would know how to proceed.
Vondi left the office around eight, but at two in the morning, he promptly called the number he was given. It took another six hours but he eventually found himself on the phone with a man named Aaron Landstat.
“Calling from the States?” Landstat said.
“Yes. I’ve been trying to get a hold of someone like you for the last eight to ten hours. You’re a private investigator, right?” Vondi said.
“Licensed and ready to work. What do you have going on? Must be important to put up with the long distance prices alone.”
“Well, it might be important. I suppose it’s important enough for me anyway, to spend this many hours looking for someone. I’m a psychologist and there is a patient of mine in England—“
“What’s his name?” Landstat said.
“John Hilt. He’s seventeen years old and he attends …” Vondi paused, looking at the paper on his desk. “The London Preparatory Academy.”
“Rich kid?”
“I think the family has some money, yes,” Vondi said. “You’ve heard of the place?”
“What are the big universities over there? Harvard? Yes, I think I remember that one. London Prep is like Harvard for high school over here. So what interest do you have in the young gentleman?”
Vondi sighed. “This is where it gets hard. I’m not a hundred percent sure.”
“Don’t worry about that. Just tell me what you think and I’ll figure everything else out.”
Vondi felt a strong like for the man as he spoke. A sense of someone who could take care of all his problems, so that Vondi needn’t worry anymore.
“So go on. What seems to be the matter with our young John Hilt?” Landstat asked.
It took Landstat a long time—relatively, for him at least—to understand Vondi’s concerns. Landstat didn’t care if the John Hilt character was planning on assassinating the Queen, or ran off with Vondi’s daughter, he just needed to know what the issue was.
And the issue was … well, pretty creepy in itself.
This psychologist, Vondi, thought the kid was some kind of psycho. A murderer in waiting, basically. Vondi didn’t go into the why’s and Landstat was glad, because he didn’t care in the slightest about what made the man think his lad a killer.
London Preparatory School. When was the last time he’d been out that way? Five or ten years ago? An hour drive, but Landstat knew the doctor didn’t really care about money, not with the energy Vondi had put in—so Landstat quoted an appropriate price.
The fax machine in the corner of Landstat’s office started printing; he stood from his desk and walked over to it. He saw the black and white picture of a teenager, short brown hair, and brown eyes. Just like the psychologist described him. The kid didn’t look like a murderer to Landstat, but who really looked like a murderer?
“Doesn’t matter to me. We’ll find out soon enough, won’t we, Mr. Hilt?”
Landstat walked back to his desk and stuck the picture in his folder, a leather job with a legal pad inside.
He grabbed his keys from the desk and locked the door on the way out, checking his watch on the way. Daylight was burning and Landstat planned to charge for every single burnt ray.
5
Present Day
“How are ya feeling?”
“I’m okay,” John said.
“You sure?”
“Yeah.”
Harry didn’t think John was telling him the truth. In fact, Harry thought John might be the furthest from okay Harry had ever seen him. If okay was having sex with your wife, and only your wife, then using that analogy, Harry thought John might be fucking toddlers. That’s how far away from okay John was.
“What do you wanna do today?” Harry asked.
“I … I don’t know,” John answered, though he didn’t look around the room to see where Harry stood. John sat on the edge of the bed, his shoes off, and an open Coke can next to him, ready to tip and spill with the slightest movement.
John had sat like this for a long time, even if Harry couldn’t remember exactly how long. The Coke was at least twenty-four hours old. John went out, got the drink, walked around this shit town while people stared at his pale skin, and then came back here to sit and watch the black television.
“John, I’ve been thinking ….”
“Hmm?”
“Well, I’ve been thinking it might be time for us to head back to the States. You don’t seem to be having a lot of fun down here, and truth be told, we have some unfinished business back north—ya know?”
“Mmm-hmm,” John said. “But, we just got here, Harry. Why would we go back?”
Harry walked out from the shadows behind John, moving in front of his vision.
“Look at me.”
John looked up and Harry saw the man’s eyes. Glazed over. Harry realized, then, the problem—why it’d been a little more difficult to see inside John’s head.
“Oh boy,” he said, a devilish smile growing on his face. “You’ve been in your pints, as our English friends used to say, huh?”
John smiled back, his eyes bloodshot. “I might have had a couple. You weren’t here and I got bored.”
“No need to explain anything to me, buddy. A few drinks is good for the heart, that’s what I’ve read anyway. What else did you do while I stepped away?”
John smiled wider. “I found someone.”
“You did? By yourself?”
“Yessir,” John said, his words slurring—enough for a cop to notice if they jumped in the car right now.
“Man or woman?”
“A man—his name is Hector.”
“Hector! I love it!” Harry said, the plan to head to the States washing away like dirt in a bath. “Where is he? When do you want to do it?”
Harry just couldn’t help it, when John started talking about working without any prompt—well Harry just felt all giddy inside! They’d make it back to the good ol’ USA, but first they needed to see about this Hector.
“I met him at the bar,” John said, still looking up from his seat on the bed. “I bet he’s there a lot.”
“Oh, I bet he is, too. I bet Hector loves that bar. Tell me, John, does he speak English?”
“A little. Poquito, as he says.” John laughed and Harry’s smile stretched wider, so that the corners of his mouth actually split, and puffy, blue flesh pressed out from the holes in his face.
“Do you want to go back tonight? Then tomorrow maybe we can talk about whatever I was saying a few minutes ago?”
John cocked his head to the side as he tried to remember what Harry had been asking him. Harry barely remembered now, himself. Whatever it was, it would come back to him. After Hector.
John shook his head. “Sure,” he said. “We can go back tonight.” He blinked a few times and then lay back down on the bed. “I’m going to take a nap. Wake me up when it’s dark.”
Harry kept smiling as John started snoring.
He didn’t fully understand what was happening here. John had never gone out and found someone on his own; Harry was always the one pushing him, finding out who and when they would do what was needed. Yet, here John was—drunk as a proverbial skunk—talking about how he found someone. And Harry hadn’t been here when it happened.
Oh what the good God give a fuck does it matter?
And it didn’t. Whatever was happening with John was for the best. Harry could share some of the load when it came to working. Hell, he’d been carrying the team for the past two decades.
We’re not going to the police, Scott told the lawyer. I don’t care what Diane and Alicia say to you about it, the police aren’t an option.
We can do that, the lawyer responded, though I don’t recommend it. He might be a danger to himself.
Now the lawyer, Stacy Coll, looked at the people in Diane’s living room, all of them staring back.
Scott knew the guy would hold the line because he wanted to get paid. The only reason Scott got a lawyer was to keep the damn cops at bay. If they figured out John was gone, they’d start harassing everyone involved, and Scott only need look at Diane to see she couldn’t handle it.
“So, I don’t recommend that we go to the police,” Stacy said.
Scott couldn’t get over the man’s name—he didn’t understand why parents would call a male Stacy. His school days must have been awful.
“We need to focus on getting John back here, back home, and then strategize about how to deal with this cop who won’t go away.”
Alicia looked to Scott, making eye contact before looking back to the lawyer. “I don’t understand that. Why wouldn’t we ask the cops to help us find him?”
The lawyer nodded, as if saying, I understand why you might think that, but …
“The police may help find him, but if they get to him first, they’re going to interrogate him. When they do that, depending on what type of condition your brother is in, he might admit to anything.”
Scott stared at Alicia, wondering if she was going to look back at him—to challenge him again, because she wasn’t believing anything. Not right now. She didn’t look to him, though, but kept her eyes on the lawyer.
“How do we find him?” Diane said. “That’s all I care about right now, getting him back here.”
How would I handle something like this? Scott thought. If Lori had gone missing, what would he have done? Given the circumstances, he thought Diane was just about as strong as she could be. Her face looked haggard but her voice was strong. She still took care of the kids, still packed lunches for school, still did everything necessary to keep the household moving.
Yet, she had to be dying inside.
Scott knew he would be.
“I’m working on that right now,” Stacy said. “There are certain ways we might be able to track him, though, the police can use the same means if they realize he’s gone. That’s why it’s important to keep this extremely quiet. No one outside of this room, not even your children, can know what’s happening. Have you told anyone else yet?”
Diane shook her head. “No.”
“We haven’t either,” Alicia said, looking over at Mark as she spoke. He nodded in agreement.
“Good. It’s going to take me just a bit to have my guy find him, but once I do, I’ll call immediately. Then we’ll go get him, okay?”
Scott watched the three other people in the room nod. All thinking this would be okay. John would come back and everything would return to normal.
Scott didn’t nod. He couldn’t. Not even to show solidarity or help the other three think that he believed the lawyer. He knew, perhaps he alone, that nothing would be okay after this. If they found John, a reckoning was coming, one that he didn’t know how to shield his family from. A reckoning he couldn’t avoid.
Diane looked at her kids and hated John more than she thought possible. He left them and they didn’t know what was happening, not really. What the hell could she tell a ten and twelve year old? Your dad’s lost his mind and he’s running around some foreign country, but by the way, don’t tell anyone at school because if the cops find out they’re going to put him jail for a long, long time.
“He’s in California,” Diane said.
Tim might believe her. At ten, you knew your parents could lie, or at least not always tell you the whole truth—but trust outweighed doubt. Drew, though? At twelve, you’re lying a good bit yourself and recognize that if you do it with such ease, then anyone else can too.
“He’s working there for a little bit,” she said.
“Can I call him?” Tim asked.
She hated John. She didn’t care if he came back and became a priest, never sinning again—she would hate him forever for this.
“No, honey. He’s really busy right now. They have him working all the time—I mean, all hours of the night.”
“He’s too busy to call?” Drew said.
The skeptical son. If Tim asked the question there would have been innocence in the words. With Drew, though, he wanted the truth —and the truth wasn’t his father worked too hard to pick up the phone for thirty seconds.
“Yes, right now he is,” Diane said. “I’ve only spoken to him once. He told me to tell you guys that he loves you and he misses you. He said he doesn’t think he’ll be there very much longer.”
“You two should be glad he’s gone,” Alicia said from Diane’s side. “I know he’s harder on you about chores than your mother.”
“That is true,” Tim said, looking at the table and nodding.
Thank God for Alicia, Diane thought.
“You two go find something to do, I want to talk to your mom for a minute, okay?”
Tim stood up from his chair but Drew remained for just a second, looking at Diane. He didn’t say anything, but stood up finally and followed his brother outside.
“He’s too smart,” Alicia said when they were out of earshot.
“I know.” Diane didn’t look to Alicia, but stared after her boys. “I hate him. I hate John for this.”
“Me too.”
They sat in silence for a few seconds.
“I don’t think my dad is telling us everything.”
Diane turned to her sister-in-law. “What?”
“I think he’s hiding something.”
“Like what? Why would he do that?”
“I don’t know,” Alicia said, staring in the living room’s direction. “I just don’t like how he left when this all began. He left and didn’t answer his cell. He’s never done that before. It just seems like too much of a coincidence.”
Diane didn’t say anything for a few seconds. What would Scott possibly have to hide? The man was as honest as they came.
“Have you asked him?”
“No,” Alicia said. “I mean, not besides the first time, but I haven’t really dug in. I haven’t told him that I don’t believe him.”
“Are you going to?”
“I think I have to. We can’t keep going on if we don’t know what is actually happening. My father has never lied to me, but I think he is now.”
6
Present Day
John Hilt was gone.
Just like that.
No other word to describe it. He was gone and Alan had no idea where he went, or how he got there. Alan didn’t believe Hilt was dead; he believed the man fled because he was guiltier than sin.
Alan found out when the cars he had tailing Hilt called in and said there was nothing to tail. They said he never went back to his office, and when Alan asked why in the fuck they were at the office if Hilt wasn’t, they responded with—“He got lunch, so we did too.”
Three days ago Alan called Hilt to say his priest was dead and then the man disappeared.
Alan called his wife, but someone else answered—an elderly man who didn’t identify himself. “We’re represented by a lawyer now. Don’t call anymore,” and with that, hung up the phone.
An anger grew in Alan, replacing the excitement he felt after the priest went missing. He knew they had Hilt, that all it would take was a few more days and they would have a warrant for his arrest. Then the toughest thing Alan would need decide was if he killed Hilt before cuffing him. A ‘resisting arrest’ type thing.
Now, though, all that was dashed as if some spoiled kid got mad during a Monopoly game and sent the pieces to every corner of the room.
Alan was fucking pissed. He picked up the phone once he finally got the lawyer’s number and put it to his ear.
“The law offices of Stacy Coll,” a pleasant voice answered.
“I need to speak to Ms. Coll right now,” Alan said.
“You mean Mr. Coll?”
“Whoever is representing John Hilt. That’s who I need to speak with.”
“Mr. Coll isn’t available right now, unfortunately. May I take a message?” the woman said.
“I’m detective Alan Tremock and I need him to call me back within the next thirty minutes or I’m showing up at the office. Got all that?”
“Yes, sir,” the woman said, still sounding pleasant—as if laughing at his anger and stoking the fires inside Alan more. “I’ll have him call as soon as he can.”
“Thirty minutes.” Alan hung the phone up, his hand shaking.
Even the sound of the woman’s voice made him want to punch something. Hard.
Alan stared at his computer for a few minutes, thoughts running through his head with the force of gods. He couldn’t slow them down or stop their repetitive nature.
He left.
I’m going to kill him.
He fucking left.
And so it went until the phone rang on his desk.
He snatched it up without bothering to look at the caller I.D..
“Tremock.”
“Hi, Detective Tremock. It’s Stacy Coll. How are you today?”
“Where is he?” Alan spat into the phone.
“Who?”
Alan said nothing but stared at his desk like someone just asked him to find an apple’s square root. He couldn’t believe the man was even asking such a question.
“John Hilt,” Alan said.
“I’m not sure. Is he not at his house? Why? Has he been formally charged?”
“You know he killed a cop, don’t you?”
“Has he been charged with that murder?” the lawyer said.
Alan hung the phone up, unable to hear another word. He closed his eyes tight and put his fingers to his temples, trying to ward off the headache growing in his skull.
After a minute or so, he reached for his phone and called Susan.
“What did the lawyer say?” she answered.
“To go fuck myself, basically. Hilt’s out of the state, though, maybe out of the country. You think we can get a warrant to look at his credit purchases?”