Head Games

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Head Games Page 20

by Thomas B Cavanagh


  “Why won’t you answer the question?” the redhead asked.

  Back in my days on the job I would have said “No comment” and told her to go jump in a gator pond. I had done exactly that countless times. But at the moment I was dizzy and nauseous. Distracted. I wasn’t myself.

  Instead, I said, “Seriously. Now is a bad time.”

  “Sure,” the reporter said. “I understand. Come on. We’ll step over somewhere a little better, out of the sun. We can take all the time you need.” She took another step closer to me, reaching with her hand, trying to guide me away from the rest of the swarming media.

  “No, you don’t understand.”

  “I do, Mr. Garrity. I do. I’m sorry for jumping in like that. Let’s step over here and you can have a moment to think about your answers.” She turned to Jennifer. “Hi. I’m Kylie Harmon from NewsChannel 2. Who are you?”

  “Uh—,” Jennifer said.

  “She’s off-limits,” I barked.

  Kylie Harmon paused, cutting her eyes between me and Jennifer. “Okay. That’s fine.”

  The clicking of machinery grew loud as the throng pressed in, everyone wanting to get a piece of my statement. Questions peppered in at me, but I couldn’t make them out individually. All my faculties were currently concentrating on remaining upright. The cemetery grass below me felt like the rocking deck of a schooner. Sweat poured off me. I had to get out of this damn sun. I began breathing more heavily. I jammed a finger into my collar, trying to let some air through.

  I tried to turn away, but Kylie Harmon leaned in close. “With an exclusive, you can have time to compose your answers. Say what you want to say.” She put a manicured hand on my elbow. “Just say yes, Mike.”

  “I gotta get outta here,” I mumbled, and tried to turn away—find some path through the crowd.

  Kylie Harmon tightened her grip on my elbow, turning me back. “Come on, Mike—”

  “Sorry,” I whispered, and then puked all over her bright blue pantsuit. I doubled over convulsively, tilting forward like an automated lawn sprinkler and spraying a wave of vomit right at her. I heard her yelp in surprise and horror. Leaning over, my hands on my thighs, I watched her matching blue pumps stumble backward. I saw the contents of my stomach oozing down her slacks as she retreated.

  Jennifer’s hand was on my back. “It’s okay, Dad. It’s okay.”

  I coughed and spat, clenching my eyes open and closed. The collective gasp of the crowd subsided, replaced by amused tittering. They, of course, had gotten it all on tape.

  Jennifer led me aside. Fortunately, the crowd parted without resistance and we found a shady spot under a different live oak tree. I sat and leaned back against the bark.

  “Sorry about that,” I rasped.

  “It’s okay.” Jennifer produced a tissue from her handbag and I wiped my lips. I spat again, trying to remove the biting, sour taste of vomit from my mouth. No use.

  “It’s the meds,” I said.

  “I know.”

  I heard someone approach. It was Detective Crowley.

  “Garrity?” she asked. “You okay?”

  “In the pink.” My voice was hoarse.

  “You want me to call someone? An ambulance?”

  “No. I’m fine. Just a little nauseous.”

  “You sure?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Can you drive home?” She offered a wan smile to Jennifer as both a greeting and acknowledgment of her underage status.

  “Yeah. I’ll be fine. Go on. Go catch the bad guys.”

  She considered for a beat. “If you need help, I can have a uniform take you home or to the doctor or something.”

  “Thanks anyway.”

  Crowley turned and strode over to a small cluster of plainclothes cops, including Gary Richards, who looked concerned. I offered a little wave to tell them I was alright.

  I closed my eyes again and leaned my head back against the tree. After a couple of deep breaths through my nostrils, I started to feel better. The puking had ejected my nausea, even if only temporarily, and the excitement had soothed Bob. The headache was diminished.

  I heard footsteps approach in the grass and stop directly in front of me.

  “You do know how to put on a show,” said a familiar voice.

  I opened my eyes and squinted up. “Jennifer,” I said, “I’d like you to meet Mrs. Arlene Sommerset. TJ’s mom.”

  * * *

  We drove to a McDonald’s three blocks down the street from the cemetery. It occurred to me that there is a McDonald’s three blocks down the street from everywhere.

  Arlene and Jennifer each ordered a meal, substituting a side salad for the fries. I got a large Coke to settle my stomach, although I was feeling much better since my graveside eruption. The Coke came in a large collector’s cup featuring the four members of Boyz Klub in jazzy poses. So far, McDonald’s corporate in Chicago hadn’t yet pulled the concert tour promotion, which had apparently just started.

  “I’m so sorry for what you went through,” Arlene said to Jennifer.

  “Thanks,” Jennifer said, concentrating on her salad.

  “Check it out,” I said, holding up the Boyz Klub collector’s cup.

  Jennifer reached her hand out and held the cup, turning it carefully, studying it.

  “Where do you think he is?” she asked Arlene.

  Arlene’s eyebrows went up and she gave me a look.

  “Jennifer knows I’m looking for TJ,” I said. “And that I haven’t found him yet.” I relayed the story of how Jennifer had helped me connect with TJ online.

  Arlene nodded. “I don’t know,” she said. “I’ve thought a lot about that recently and I just don’t know. I wish I had locked my doors or something. If I had known there would be all this trouble, I would’ve kept him from leaving my house.”

  “That wouldn’t have worked,” Jennifer said. “If TJ really wanted to go, you couldn’t stop him.”

  Arlene considered this. “No, I suppose you’re right.” She picked at her food. “You seem like you really know my son.”

  Jennifer shrugged.

  “She’s a fan,” I offered.

  “So, you think he’s in a hotel or something?” Jennifer asked. “Couldn’t you call around and see if he’s registered?”

  “Where would you start?” I said. “There are a million hotels in the world and TJ could be in any one of them. He can afford to go anywhere he wants for as long as he wants. And leave no trail.”

  “Besides,” Arlene said, “he never stays in a hotel under his own name.”

  “Oh?” I said.

  “For security. He always checks in under some alias. They do it all the time for celebrities. It throws off the stalkers and the paparazzi.”

  “What name does he use?” Jennifer asked.

  “Depends. He changes it all the time. But he usually combines the first and last names of his favorite songwriters.”

  I sat forward and put down the cup. “What do you mean?”

  “He’ll combine Brian Wilson and Bernie Taupin into Brian Taupin or Bernie Wilson or something.”

  “And who are his favorite songwriters?”

  “He has a bunch. Paul Simon. Billy Joel. John Lennon. Paul McCartney. Don McLean. Jim Croce. Dylan, of course.”

  “He likes seventies music.”

  “Not disco. But, yes, he appreciates good lyrics. Poetry. There are some more current artists he likes, too, but I don’t know them as well.”

  I nodded. Sipped my soda. Jennifer crunched the last bite of her salad.

  “I gotta go soon, Dad. I’m working the afternoon shift.”

  “Okay.”

  We cleaned up and dumped our trays. As we stepped outside, Jennifer turned to Arlene.

  “If you talk to him—TJ—tell him that we want him to do the tour. Even if Boyz Klub is done afterwards, the fans want to see them together one last time. I want to. It would be sad if it all just went away without us being able to say good-bye. Y’know?” />
  Arlene put a hand on Jennifer’s arm. “I know, sweetie. I know.” She let go and looked at me. Her eyes pleaded for me to find him.

  I nodded at her and wondered just how the hell I was going to do that.

  CHAPTER 26

  I dropped Jennifer at the mall for work and then sat in my truck for a few minutes, wondering what I should do now. I literally had nothing to do. With Eddie’s funeral over, all my leads for finding TJ had dried up. Jennifer told me a friend was giving her a ride home, so I didn’t even have to be back to pick her up later. My afternoon was completely free.

  When I turned the wheel, my arm crossed my chest and I felt something in my suit pocket. My cell phone. I’d forgotten it was in there. Pulling it out, I noticed that it was off. I had turned it off for Eddie’s funeral and, in all the excitement of barfing for the cameras, had neglected to flip it back on.

  I pressed it on. I had two messages. The first was from Becky in North Carolina. She had finally gotten my voice mail and was returning the call. She wanted to know if everything was okay.

  How exactly should I answer that? I dreaded telling her about Jennifer carrying Eddie’s head home from the mall. No, Becky would definitely not take that well.

  I decided that the best thing to do would be what I do best: avoid and ignore. The call back to Becky would wait until I was in a frame of mind to deal with the consequences. It was how I dealt with most issues during our marriage—and also our divorce, for that matter.

  The second message was from George Neuheisel. He was clearly calling at the behest of his master. Eli was concerned about my lack of progress locating TJ. He wanted to know if TJ showed up at his cousin’s funeral. He wanted a status on the investigation. He wanted my plan for finding him with less than a week remaining before the tour started. Mostly, he wanted me to come straight to the Global Talent offices and get yelled at.

  I thought about that for a moment and decided, what the hell? I didn’t have anything better to do.

  * * *

  Forty minutes later I again sat in Eli’s office watching him have a red-faced fit. George sat passively next to me, lips pursed.

  “… not gonna get a single fucking penny!” Eli was saying. “You hear me? Not a cent! No TJ, no money!”

  “I think by now I understand my assignment,” I said.

  “You better, asshole.” Eli leveled a finger at me. “You better.”

  That was about all I could take. I snapped a hand out and grabbed the finger, twisting it up.

  Eli chirped in sudden pain, “Eeef!”

  George made a move to get up, and it was my turn to point at someone. I jabbed my finger at George.

  “Sit down, George.” He froze, knees bent, hovering over the chair. But he didn’t sit back down. “Do it, Georgie, or I’m gonna pop his finger out.”

  Eli slapped his desk twice with the open palm of his free hand. “Sit!” he hissed through clenched teeth.

  George sat.

  “Good.” I turned back to Eli. “Now you listen to me. Don’t threaten me about money ’cause I don’t give a crap. Haulin’ my ass in here and screamin’ at me isn’t helpin’ me find him. You wanna help me? Then leave me alone and let me work.”

  “Okay,” Eli grunted.

  I gave the finger a little twist and let it go. Eli’s hand recoiled back to his chest where he cradled it like a wounded duckling.

  “You’re insane!” he said.

  I shrugged.

  “And you are so fucking fired. You hear me? Get outta my office!”

  “You don’t wanna do that,” I said.

  “Oh, yes, I do. I wanna do that as much as I’ve wanted to do anything in my life. Get out.”

  “Okay,” I said, rising. “But who’s gonna find TJ for you? Nobody you bring in now is gonna come up to speed fast enough to make any difference.”

  Eli’s eyes bored into me. He was furious. Probably the thing that made him the most livid was that I was right. He had to keep me on the case. He had no choice.

  He blew out a long exhale. “Don’t you have informants or anything? Sources on the street who tell you things?”

  I snorted and remained standing. “You watch too many movies. If TJ was a transvestite crack whore down on the Trail, then maybe I could dig up a source or two. But he’s not. He’s a millionaire kid with a broken heart who could be drowning his sorrows on the beach in Rio for all I know. And my worldwide network of wealthy superspies is a little thin these days.”

  “This isn’t funny.”

  “No, it’s not. A human head on my kitchen table is not funny. None of this is funny.”

  “So what’re you gonna do?” George asked.

  “I’m gonna keep lookin’. I’m gonna hope to get lucky. I’m gonna pray I find this kid before he hurts himself or ends up like his cousin. But first I’m gonna get the hell outta this office before it completely sucks out what little life I have left. If I were TJ, I’d run away, too.”

  I turned and strode out of the office. I went directly to the break room, where I poured myself a big mug of gourmet coffee. Then I waltzed out past the receptionist, taking the mug with me.

  I sipped it all the way down the elevator to the third level of the building’s underground parking garage. My truck was waiting for me halfway down the full row, next to a concrete pillar.

  As I pulled my keys from my pocket, I became aware of a car approaching up the ramp. No, it sounded bigger. A truck. It turned the corner just as I reached my door.

  It was a black Cadillac Escalade SUV, a behemoth under any circumstances but seemingly even larger now scraping just below the cramped, low ceiling of the garage. It slowed down, waiting for me to vacate my spot. I held up a finger.

  The windows were tinted almost black and I couldn’t see inside. The front passenger window slid down and a beefy, sandy-haired guy leaned out.

  “Just a sec,” I said. “I’m leaving.”

  The guy nodded. “What’s your hurry, Mikey?”

  I froze. Oh, shit.

  The Escalade’s door swung open and the guy got out. “Take a little ride.”

  “Uh, thanks anyway.” I quickly cut my eyes left and right. I was trapped between my truck on one side and a minivan on the other. Behind me was the concrete garage wall. The Escalade sat directly in front in what was my only real path of escape.

  My nine-millimeter Glock again sat uselessly inside the cab of my locked truck, tucked under my seat. All I had was the stupid Global Talent coffee cup I now clutched.

  The sandy-haired guy took a step toward me and I didn’t hesitate. I hurled the mug at him and turned, planting a foot on my front tire and launching myself up onto the hood of my truck.

  “Ow! Shit!” I heard the guy shout as I rolled across the hood. I thought I heard other doors on the Escalade opening. I righted myself and leapt from my hood onto the hood of a green Volvo, crouching to keep from smacking my head on the low ceiling. One more step and I bounded over the next gap, picking up speed, hitting the hood of a Civic.

  Footsteps behind me now, on the concrete. I was alone on the cars, my pursuers chasing me from the unobstructed drive.

  Another stride—another leap, now to a red Saturn. Rule number one—the rule always stressed in the women’s safety-awareness classes at the community center—was to never, under any circumstances, ever get into the car. In the car, you’re trapped, at the mercy of your attacker. The statistics showed that if you got into the car, you died. If you ran, you at least had a fighting chance.

  Still moving. Another car, the sheet-metal hood buckling loudly under my running steps. Tires squealed as the Escalade joined the pursuit. I jumped again, landing hard on the hood, waving my arms to keep from falling. I propelled myself forward.

  The footsteps were parallel to me now, pulling ahead. I had no plan for escape. I could see no fire exit, no stairs, no maintenance closet. And looming four cars ahead of me was a fifteen-passenger van with no hood to offer a purchase for my landing.
>
  I hit a Mercedes hard and its security alarm whooped to life. Another leap and I thumped down on the hood of a Cavalier. Then I pulled up short and stopped.

  Another guy appeared in the space between the last car and the passenger van. He looked Latin, not quite as big as the guy I’d thrown the coffee mug at, but still no slouch. The Latin guy pointed a large revolver at my chest.

  Breathing hard, the car alarm wailing behind me, I knew I was cooked. More footsteps approached. I figured my only shot was to dive off the other side of the Cavalier and take cover behind it. Maybe I would get lucky and an OPD cruiser would round the corner on patrol before these guys blew my balding head off. Yeah, fat chance.

  My calf twitched in preparation to jump, but before I could make a move, I felt my shirt being yanked from behind. I went down on my ass and slid backward. The sandy-haired guy shoved me to the concrete and stepped hard on my shoulder with a heavy construction boot. Brown coffee stains splotched across his dress shirt. His left cheek was red and puffy where the mug had connected. I might’ve broken something in his face. It looked like it hurt like hell. And he was none too happy about it. He hauled back a beefy fist to flatten my nose, but another big hand caught his forearm.

  A familiar face leaned over me, and given the choice, I would’ve probably preferred the flattened nose.

  “Now, Mikey,” said Mr. Day-Glo, the black-haired goon from the Mustang, “is that polite? Someone offers you a ride and you throw a mug at him?” Today’s ensemble featured an electric-blue golf shirt.

  “You fucker!” screamed the sandy-haired guy. “I’m gonna kill you!”

  “Very bad manners, Mikey. I’m ashamed.”

  Day-Glo grabbed my collar and hauled me to my feet.

  “Let him go, you Greek bastard,” barked the sandy-haired guy. “I owe him.”

  My—apparently Greek—friend from the Mustang sighed and looked at me. “Don’t move.”

  There was nowhere to go. The Escalade sat idling at the end of the opening, blocking my escape. And now the Latin guy with the revolver stood waiting there, as well.

 

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