The Last Detective

by Robert Crais

  Lucy joined us at the glass doors.

  “Shouldn't we call the FBI? Doesn't the FBI handle kidnappings?”

  Gittamon answered with the gentle voice of a man who had spent years dealing with frightened parents and children.

  “We'll call the FBI if it's necessary, but first we need to establish what happened.”

  “We know what happened: Someone stole my son.”

  Gittamon turned from the doors and went to the couch. Starkey sat with him, taking out a small spiral notebook.

  “I know that you're frightened, Ms. Chenier, I would be frightened, too. But it's important for us to understand Ben and whatever led up to this.”

  I said, “Nothing led up to this, Gittamon. Some asshole just grabbed him.”

  Lucy was good in court and was used to thinking about difficult things during stressful situations. This was infinitely worse, but she did well at keeping herself focused. Probably better than me.

  She said, “I understand, Sergeant, but this is my child.”

  “I know, so the sooner we do this, the sooner you'll have him back.”

  Gittamon asked Lucy a few general questions that didn't have anything to do with being grabbed off a hill. While they spoke, I wrote down everything the caller had said to me, then went upstairs for a picture of Ben and one of the snapshots Ben had found of me in my Army days. I had not looked at that picture or any of the others for years until Ben found them. I hadn't wanted to see them.

  Poitras was sitting on the Eames chair in the corner when I got back.

  He said, “PacBell's working on the trace. We'll have the source number in a couple of hours.”

  I gave the pictures to Gittamon.

  “This is Ben. The other picture is me. I wrote down what the man said, and I'm pretty sure I didn't leave anything out.”

  Gittamon glanced at the pictures, then passed them to Starkey.

  “Why the picture of you?”

  “The man who called said ‘five-two.' You see the man next to me holding the sign with the number? Five-two was our patrol number. I don't know what else this guy could have meant.”

  Starkey glanced up from the pictures.

  “You don't look old enough for Vietnam.”

  “I wasn't.”

  Gittamon said, “All right, what else did he say?”

  I pointed at the sheet.

  “I wrote it down for you word for word. He didn't say much—just the number and that he had Ben, and that he was paying me back for something.”

  Gittamon glanced over the sheet, then passed it to Starkey, too.

  Poitras said, “You recognize his voice?”

  “I don't have any idea who he is. I've been racking my brain, but, no, I didn't recognize it.”

  Gittamon took back the picture from Starkey and frowned at it.

  “Do you believe him to be one of the men in this picture?”

  “No, that's not possible. A few minutes after this picture was taken, we went out on a mission, and everyone was killed but me. That makes it stand out, the five-two; that's why I remember.”

  Lucy sighed softly. Starkey's mouth tightened as if she wanted a cigarette. Gittamon squirmed, as if he didn't want to talk about something so uncomfortable. I didn't want to talk about it, either.

  “Well, ah, was there some kind of incident?”

  “No, not if you're asking if it was my fault. It just went bad. I didn't do anything except survive.”

  I felt guilty that Ben was missing and embarrassed that he seemed to be missing because of me. Here we were all over again, another nightmare delivered to Lucy's doorstep by yours truly.

  I said, “I don't know what else the man on the phone could have meant. That's all it could be.”

  Starkey shifted toward Gittamon.

  “Maybe we should get Ben's description out to patrol.”

  Poitras nodded, telling her to get on with it. “Talk to the phone company, too. Have them set up a line trap on Elvis's phone.”

  Starkey took her cell phone into the entry. While Starkey was making the calls, Gittamon asked about my past few days with Ben. When I told him I found Ben looking through my closet, Gittamon raised his eyebrows.

  “So Ben knew about this five-two business?”

  “Not about the others getting killed, but he saw the pictures.”

  “And this was when?”

  “Earlier in the week. Three days ago, maybe. What does that have to do with anything?”

  Gittamon concentrated on the picture, as if he was on the edge of a profound thought. He glanced at Lucy, then looked back at me.

  “I'm just trying to see how this fits. The implication is that he took Ms. Chenier's son as revenge for something that you did—not Ms. Chenier, but you. But Ben isn't your son or stepson, and hasn't lived with you except these past few days. I understand that correctly, don't I? You and Ms. Chenier maintain separate residences?”

  Lucy unfolded herself on the hearth. Gittamon was obviously considering other possibilities, and Lucy was interested.

  “Yes, that's right.”

  Gittamon nodded, and looked back at me.

  “Why would he take Ms. Chenier's son if it's you he hates so much? Why wouldn't he just burn down your house or shoot you or even just sue you? You see what I'm getting at?”

  I saw, and didn't much like it.

  “Look, that's not it. Ben wouldn't do that. He's only ten.”

  Lucy glanced from Gittamon to me, then back, not understanding.

  “What wouldn't Ben do?”

  “Lou, for Christ's sake.”

  Poitras nodded, agreeing with me.

  “Dave, Ben wouldn't do that. I know this kid.”

  Lucy said, “Are you saying that Ben staged his own abduction?”

  Gittamon placed the picture on the coffee table as if he had seen enough.

  “No, ma'am, it's too early to say, but I've seen children stage abductions for all manner of reasons, especially when they're feeling insecure. A friend's older brother could have made the call to Mr. Cole.”

  I was angry and irritated. I went to the doors. A frightened part of me hoped that Ben would be on the deck, watching us, but he wasn't.

  I said, “If you don't want to raise false hopes, then stop. I spent the past five days with him. Ben wasn't feeling insecure, and he wouldn't do that.”

  Lucy's voice snapped behind me.

  “Would you rather someone kidnapped him?”

  She wanted to believe it so badly that hope glowed in her eyes like hot sparks.

  Poitras pushed up from the Eames chair. “Dave? If you have enough to get started, let's roll out of here. I want to knock on a couple of doors. Maybe someone down the hill saw something.”

  Gittamon gestured to Starkey that she could close her notebook, then stood to join Poitras.

  “Ms. Chenier, please, I'm not saying Ben staged his own abduction—I'm really not, Mr. Cole—but it's something we have to consider. I'd like a list of Ben's friends and their phone numbers. It's still early enough to make a few calls.”

  Lucy stood with them, as intent and focused as I had ever seen her.

  “I'll have to get them from home. I can go do that right now.”

  I said, “Gittamon, you going to ignore the goddamned call?”

  “No, Mr. Cole, we're going to treat this as an abduction until we know otherwise. Can you put together a list of the people involved with whatever happened to you in the Army and any other information you have?”

  “They're dead.”

  “Well, their families. We might want to speak with their families. Carol, would you get together with Mr. Cole on that?”

  Starkey handed me her card as the four of us went to the door.

  Starkey said, “I'll come by tomorrow morning to see where you found the Game Freak. I can get the names then. What's a good time?”

  “Sunrise.”

  If Starkey heard the anger in my answer she didn't show it. She shrugged.

>   “Better light around seven.”

  “Fine.”

  Gittamon said, “If he calls again, let us know. You can phone any time.”

  “I will.”

  That was it. Gittamon told Lucy that he would be expecting her call, and then they left. Lucy and I did not speak as we watched them drive away, but once they were gone Ben's absence was a physical force in the house, as real as a body hanging from my loft. Three of us present, not just two. Lucy picked up her briefcase. It was still where she dropped it.

  “I want to get those names for Sergeant Gittamon.”

  “I know. I'll get my names together, too. Call me when you get home, okay?”

  Lucy glanced at the time, then closed her eyes.

  “Jesus, I have to call Richard. God, that's going to be awful, telling him about this.”

  Richard Chenier was Lucy's ex-husband and Ben's father. He lived in New Orleans, and it was only right that she tell him that his son was missing. Richard and Lucy had argued often about me. I guessed they would argue more.

  Lucy fumbled with her briefcase and her keys, and all at once she started crying. I cried, too. We held each other tight, the two of us crying, my face in her hair.

  I said, “I'm sorry. I don't know what happened or who would do this or why, but I'm sorry.”

  “Don't.”

  I didn't know what else to say.

  I walked her out to her car, then stood in the street as she drove away. The lights were on in Grace's house, Grace with her two little boys. The cold night air felt good, and the darkness felt good, too. Lucy had been kind. She had not blamed me, but Ben had been with me, and now he was gone. The weight of the moment was mine.

  After a while, I went back inside. I brought the Game Freak to the couch and sat with it. I stared at the picture of me with Roy Abbott and the others. Abbott looked like a twelve-year-old. I didn't look much older. I had been eighteen. Eight years older than Ben. I didn't know what had happened to Ben or where he was, but I would bring him home. I stared at the men in the picture.

  “I'll find him. I'm going to bring him home. I swear to God I will.”

  The men in the picture knew I would do it.

  Rangers don't leave Rangers behind.

  4

  The Abduction: Part One

  The last thing Ben saw was the Queen of Blame gouging the eyes from a Flathead minion. One moment he was with the Queen on the hillside below Elvis Cole's house; the next, unseen hands covered his face and carried him away so quickly that he didn't know what was happening. The hands covered his eyes and mouth. After the initial surprise of being jerked off his feet, Ben thought that Elvis was playing a trick on him, but the trick did not end.

  Ben struggled and tried to kick, but someone held him so tightly that he could neither move nor scream for help. He floated soundlessly across the slope and into a waiting vehicle. A heavy door slammed. Tape was pressed over his mouth, then a hood was pushed over his head, covering him with blackness. His arms and legs were taped together. He fought against the taping, but now more than one person held him. They were in a van. Ben smelled gasoline and the pine-scented stuff that his mother used when she cleaned the kitchen.

  The vehicle moved. They were driving.

  The man who now held him said, “Anyone see you?”

  A rough voice answered from the front of the vehicle.

  “It couldn't have gone any better. Make sure he's okay.”

  Ben figured that the second voice belonged to the man who took him and was now driving. The man holding him squeezed Ben's arm.

  “Can you breathe? Grunt or nod or something to let me know.”

  Ben was too scared to do either, but the first man answered as if he had.

  “He's fine. Christ, you should feel his heart beating. Hey, you were supposed to leave his shoe. He still has his shoes.”

  “He was playing one of those Game Boy things. I left the game instead. That's better than a shoe.”

  They drove downhill, then up. Ben worked his jaws against the tape, but he couldn't open his mouth.

  The man patted Ben's leg.

  “Take it easy.”

  They drove for only a few minutes, then they stopped. Ben thought they would get out, but they didn't. He heard what sounded like a power saw in the distance, and then someone else climbed into the van.

  The third man, one who Ben hadn't yet heard, said, “Heez owt on heez dek.”

  Ben had heard Cajun French and French accents for much of his life, and this was familiar, though somehow different. A French man speaking English, but with some other accent under the French. That made three of them; three total strangers had taken him.

  The man who had taken him said, “Roger that. I see him.”

  The man who held him said, “I can't see shit from back here. What's he doing?”

  “He's moving down the slope.”

  Ben realized that they were talking about Elvis. The three men were watching Elvis Cole. Elvis was looking for him.

  The man with Ben said, “This is bullshit, sitting back here.”

  The rough voice said, “He found the kid's toy. He's running back to his house.”

  “I wish I could see.”

  “There's nothing to see, Eric. Stop bitching and settle down. Now we wait for the mother.”

  The Abduction: Part Two

  When they mentioned his mother, Ben felt an intense jolt of fear, suddenly terrified that they would hurt her. His eyes filled and his nose clogged. He tried to pull his arms free of the tape, but Eric weighed him down like a heavy steel anchor.

  “Take it easy. Stop it, goddamnit.”

  Ben wanted to warn his mom and get the police and kick these men until they cried like babies, but he couldn't do any of that. Eric held tight.

  “Jesus, stop flopping around. You're going to hurt yourself.”

  They waited for what seemed like hours, then the rough voice said, “I'll make the call.”

  Ben heard the door open and somebody get out. After a minute, the door opened again and whoever it was got back in.

  The rough voice said, “That's it.”

  They drove down out of the hills, then back up again on winding streets. After a while, the van braked. Ben heard the mechanical clatter of a garage door opening. They eased forward, then the engine shut off and the garage door closed behind them.

  Eric said, “C'mon, kid.”

  Eric cut the tape holding Ben's legs, then Ben was jerked by his feet.

  “Ow!”

  “C'mon, you can walk. I'll tell you where.”

  The man held tight to Ben's arm.

  Ben was in a garage. The hood pushed up enough for him to glimpse the van—white and dirty, with dark blue writing on the side. Eric turned him away before he could read what was written.

  “We're coming to a step. Step up. C'mon, lift your goddamned feet!”

  Ben felt for the step with his toe.

  “Shit, forget it. This is taking too long.”

  Eric carried Ben into the house like a baby. Being carried made Ben mad. He could have walked! He didn't have to be carried!

  Ben glimpsed dim rooms empty of furniture, and then Eric dropped his legs.

  “I'm putting you down. Stand up.”

  Ben stood.

  “Okay, I put a chair behind you. Siddown. I've got you. You won't fall.”

  Ben lowered himself until the chair took his weight. It was hard to sit with his arms taped to his sides; the tape pinched his skin.

  “Okay, we're good to go. Is Mike outside?”

  Mike. Mike was the man who had taken him. Eric had waited in the van. Now Ben knew two of their names.

  The third man said, “I want to see heez face.”

  Eye-wahnt-tu-see-heez-fehss.

  His voice was eerie and soft.

  “Mike won't like it.”

  “Stand behind him if you are afraid.”

  Stand-beehighnd-heem.

  The voice was only inches awa
y.

  “Christ. Whatever.”

  Ben didn't know where he was or what they were doing, but he was suddenly scared again, just like when they talked about his mother. Ben had not yet seen any of the three men, but he knew that he was about to, and the thought of seeing them scared him. He didn't want to see them. He didn't want to see any of this.

  The hood was pulled off from behind.

  An enormously tall man stood in front of him, staring down at Ben without expression. The man was so tall that his head seemed to brush the ceiling, and so black that his skin drank the room's dim light and glowed like gold. A row of round purple scars the size of pencil erasers lined the man's forehead above his eyebrows. Three more scars followed the line of his cheeks below each eye, each scar a hard knob like something had been pushed under the skin. The scars terrified Ben; they looked creepy and obscene. Ben tried to twist away, but Eric held tight.

  Eric said, “He's an African, kid. He won't eat ya until he cooks you.”

  The African carefully peeled the tape from Ben's mouth. Ben was so afraid that he trembled. It was dark outside; full-on night.

  “I want to go home.”

  Eric made a soft laugh like he thought that was funny. Eric had short red hair and milky skin. A gap showed between his front teeth like an open gate.

  Ben was in an empty living room with a white stone fireplace at one end and sheets hung over the windows. A door opened behind them, and the African stepped away. Eric spoke fast as a third man came into the room.

  “Mazi has the African thing goin'. I told him not to.”

  Mike slapped his palm into Mazi's chest so fast that the African was falling back even before Ben realized that Mike had hit him. Mazi was tall and big, but Mike looked stronger, with thick wrists and gnarled fingers and a black T-shirt that was tight across his chest and biceps. He looked like G.I. Joe.

  Mazi caught himself to stay on his feet, but he didn't hit back.

  Mazi said, “Ewe ahr dee bawss.”

  “Roger-fucking-that.”

  Mike pushed the African farther away, then glanced down at Ben.

  “How you doing?”

  Ben said, “What did you do to my mother?”

  “Nothing. We just waited for her to get back so that I could call. I wanted her to know you're gone.”

  “I don't want to be gone. I want to go home.”