Cal eased his grip and began to experiment with the wheel. He picked up speed and bit his lip in concentration as he guided the car down the dusty road.
Nolan smiled. "You're doing fine, kid. We'll turn at the next road. Use your signal within fifty yards. I don't care if you're the only car in sight signal to let God know what you're doing. God likes that."
Cal drove on, smiling and making only a few mistakes as Nolan talked him through turns and stops and passing vehicles. By the time they crossed the border and reached Al's place the boy was relaxed and comfortable behind the wheel. Nolan was proud of him.
Al came out of his office and smiled when he recognized them. Cal put the car in park, turned off the engine, and slid out of the seatbelt with extreme care. Then he whooped and jumped out of his seat to tell Al about his experience.
Al lifted a rusty brow and listened with smiling attention as the boy went over his lesson. Nolan watched and quickly realized that the smile didn't reach Al's eyes. Something was wrong. When Cal went to relieve an excited bladder, Nolan looked at the big man and said, "What is it, Al? Did you receive a visit from our friends?"
"You might say that," Al said. "I've got something to show you, just you, not the boy. I don't know if he should see it."
Nolan filled his lungs. "Okay. Is anything broken around here? Give him something to train his brain on and he'll be happy."
Al thought for a minute. "Yeah. I've been sortin' through the junk in my trailer back there and—"
"You live in that thing?" Nolan interrupted.
"Where did you think I lived?" Al demanded.
"Hell if I knew," Nolan said. "I guess I thought you had a house around here somewhere."
The oblong silver trailer sitting behind the office was a crappy, dilapidated thing. It was so ancient no one would recognize it for what it was: one of the first attempts at a mobile living unit.
Al was smiling at him. "It's fit for farts and flies, I know. But don't worry I'm leaving it here when I go." His smile widened as Cal rejoined them. "Hey there, bright boy. You know anything about car stereos?"
"A little," Cal said with his usual modesty. Nolan saw right through him. And he still hadn't forgiven him for the car repair bit.
"Well, I found me one in this Dodge," Al went on. "I'd like to put it in my old Chevy pickup for the drive back home, see. Trouble is, I can't get these big old hands where they need to be. Think you could help me out?"
"Sure. Where is it?"
"On the seat in the pickup. Tools are right there beside it. Ain't much to it."
"Okay," Cal said, already moving toward Al's red pickup. Al winked at Nolan. "I decided against the toaster oven in the trailer. He'd work through that in no time."
"He'll be done with the truck in five minutes," Nolan said. "You'd better show me what you have now."
"No he won't," Al said. "That car stereo doesn't work. I've already had it in and out once today. He'll put it in, try to get it working then yank it out again to see what the problem is."
"You sly dog," Nolan said, smiling. "What's wrong with it?"
"Damned if I know. I ain't the genius. Come on back this way." Al started walking.
"Wait," Nolan said. "I didn't see anyone following us, but I didn't see anyone last time either. I'd like to stay where I can keep an eye on Cal."
Al gave him a meaningful look. "This way, Wulf."
Nolan hesitated only a second before trotting to catch up with Al's long stride. A hundred yards into the salvage area he stopped. A crow perched on the sunken roof of the gray metal heap. The Buick had been through one hell of a demolition derby. Both bumpers were missing, all the glass was gone, the doors were caved in and the hood was buckled up in a V-shape that suggested Newton's laws of motion had been proved once again with the aid and probable destruction of a tree or utility pole.
"Came in early this morning," Al said. "Big fella. Damn near big as me. Didn't want any money or any talk, he just handed me the paper and left. Took me an old man's minute to recognize the damned thing. When I did, it was too late to ask questions. But look here. . ."
He went to the car and stuck his hand in the open driver's window. Nolan followed and looked in the direction his finger was pointing. "What?"
"It's been hosed out. The interior was still wet when he brought it in. Still didn't get it all, though."
Nolan squinted. Then he saw what Al was pointing at: a fist-sized reddish-brown stain on the floorboard in front of the passenger seat. He stood back. What the hell was going on here?
"I got to eye-ballin’ the paper and made me a long-distance phone call to Texas," Al said. "Someone by the name of William Callahan ain't real happy about this. The car was registered under some operation owned by him."
"You spoke to him?" Nolan asked.
"Long enough for him to tell me to mind my own damned business. That's Cal's granddaddy, right?"
Nolan nodded. "Cal said the men in the car probably worked for his grandfather. But the big guy who brought it in this morning—can you describe him?"
"Big," Al said. "Had on a cap and a greasy pair of overalls."
“Burr haircut?" Nolan said. "Big white teeth?"
"Never saw his teeth. And I didn't pay much attention to his haircut. Like I said, it was early."
Nolan had an ominous feeling about this. "Al, have you ever been to Denke?"
"Can't say as I have." Al spat in the dirt. "Only been in that direction once that I can recall, and that was to have dinner with you folks last Sunday."
"So they don't know you," Nolan said thoughtfully. Why bring the car to this yard in particular? Why take it across the border?
Al was watching him. "You know the fella who brought it in?"
"I think I do," Nolan said. "But I can't figure out why. The man's name is Gil Schwarz. He lives in Denke. Last Sunday, before you arrived, he brought a horse out to the place for boarding. He found Myra in the barn and assaulted her."
"You're shittin' me," Al said in sudden anger. "And you didn't kill the sonofabitch?"
Nolan's smile was rueful. "Maybe I should have." He threw his head back then. "Goddamn, I hate this. Is there a connection here that I'm missing? What the fuck was Gil Schwarz doing with this car? And what happened to the guys inside?"
"Calm down, ace," Al said. "We'd best get back to the boy because I just thought of a sick possibility. This could be a plot cooked up by the kid's grandma. Her little errand boys tell her what happened at my place and she decides to cash in on my participation. They trash the car, spill a little blood, and hire that big horny sonofabitch to tow the wreck here to me. She figures on me knowin' the car and callin' you up to say the coast is clear and the bad guys are either laid up or dead. You throw open the hatch in relief and they swoop in and snatch the kid."
Nolan stared at him. "Damn, Al. That's good. You sure you were never a cop?"
Al started walking. "Don't take a cop or a genius to know how a deviant thinks. Just watch your TV regular."
They made their way back to the office in time to hear a blast of music come from the red pickup parked on the north side. Cal turned off the sound when he saw them approaching. He beamed with satisfaction as he climbed out of the cab. "All ready to go, Al. It sounds great."
Al and Nolan traded a glance.
"You want a beer?" Al asked.
Nolan eyed the smiling boy. "No, thanks. I'd better hang on to the few brain cells I have."
As the three adjourned to Al's tiny office, an angry Houstonian named William Callahan finally reached his wife by phone. He barked at her in a gin-soaked rage until she threatened to hang up on him.
"I'm sorry you had to leave three messages," she said in an attempt to soothe him. "I've been arguing with the realty agent all day. The unctuous fool tells me it will be impossible to get what I'm asking for the house in River Oaks. You know it's worth it and I know it's worth it, but—"
"Will you shut up and listen, Clarice? I didn't call about the house.
We'll sell the damn thing and get every penny. I'm calling about your little game with Myra and Cal. Several hours ago I received a phone call from a man who owns a salvage yard in Colorado. It seems he has one of my cars and—"
"What are you doing in Colorado?" Clarice interrupted. "I thought you were in New York?"
"I'm in Houston, dammit. I got back yesterday. You'd know that if you weren't so busy keeping tabs on everybody but me. And speaking of which, just where the hell did you sleep last night? Are we still humping my cardiologist, or are we back with our favorite little sheet salesman at Neiman-Marcus?"
"Please," Clarice said in a bored tone. "I'm really far too busy for this nonsense, William. Did you say you received news about Cal?"
"No, I said I received news about one of my cars. The car you so generously donated to your kidnapping cause. It turned up in a salvage yard this morning…in Colorado."
There was a long pause. Finally Clarice said, "I can't believe they would do that."
"What?"
"Skip with the money I gave them. The retainer."
"How much?" William asked, angry again.
"Only ten thousand."
"How much did you promise for return of the kid?"
"Another forty."
"Oh. No, yeah, they wouldn't skip. The stupid pigs would definitely have come back for that. Well, what the hell do you suppose happened? Clarice, this is costing too goddamn much money. You've already pissed away fifty grand trying to get that hardheaded little bastard back."
"You spend twice that amount fixing one race," Clarice retorted. "This is your grandson, William, the sole male heir and carrier of your genes. That should mean something to you."
"Not half as much as it means to you," William said. "And I haven't fixed a race in years. Listen, the kid is going to be fruitful and multiply whether he goes to Harvard or not. I'm not worried about that. And as for being my heir, well, I'd say he's not too terribly worried about that end. In a few years he'll have people fighting to give him money for the services of that brain. He doesn't need us."
"He does need us, William. He does. And I need him. He's all I have left of Patrick and I can't bear the thought of never seeing him again. If Myra has her way, I won't. He may be hungry, William. He may be struggling through each day out of some misguided sense of loyalty to his mother. Cal is intelligent enough to see that she's disturbed, but you know how soft-hearted he can be. He'll shove logic aside and lap every drop of poison that oozes from her breast."
William laughed. "Christ, what a way with words."
"This isn't funny," Clarice snapped. "First there was a fire and now the men I sent have disappeared. I know that woman is behind this, William. She may even have murdered them."
"That's ridiculous, Clarice. Myra doesn't have a murderous bone in her body."
"I wasn't talking about her. She's living with two men now. Two, William. And they're both armed. I thought I told you that."
"It must have been my heart doctor," William said acidly. "I know you get us confused. Where did she find these guys?"
"Who knows? But they're obviously sheltering her. God knows what they're getting in return. Just think of the depraved, lascivious behavior poor Cal is being forced to witness."
"No worse than what he'd see around you," William said with a grunt. Then, "Look, why don't you just let him be? Really I'm serious now. If you bring him back against his will he'll just run away. And if you send him off to Europe to some school, he'll just run away and be in Europe. I'm tired of bankrolling this little war against Myra. And it is against Myra. You've hated her from day one."
"She betrayed me," Clarice said coldly.
"How? By falling for that stupid son of yours?"
"He was your son, too, and Myra knew better. She knew better than to believe she would ever be worthy of Patrick. I let the little backwater tramp into my school and gave her a chance to make something of her life. She betrayed my good will."
William sighed. "This conversation is about to end, Clarice. And so is the farce. No promises this time, I'm telling you to leave Myra and the boy alone once and for all. I can't afford to be dragged into any police investigations. When and if any bodies turn up and they connect the Buick with me, I'll simply say that two of my employees asked to use the car for their vacation and I said yes. I'm a nice guy."
"You're a prince," Clarice snarled.
"I mean it, Clarice. If I hear of you spending another dime to bring that kid back I'm cutting you off. And don't tell me you'll use your own money, because your wonderful schools aren't doing so wonderfully lately. I know because I had an informative lunch with your accountant."
"You did what?"
"Enrollment has been down for the last two years. The market's glutted with designer labels and stores are back to promoting their own lines. You're smart enough to know what that means, Clarice. It means your eager little students will be lucky to find jobs as seamstresses after graduation. They know that even if you don't."
"The glut is temporary," Clarice insisted. "We’re about to see a new era in clothes design."
"Don't kid yourself, Clarice. And don't come crying to me when your business goes down the drain."
Clarice made a noise of disgust. "I hate to talk to you when you've been drinking. You become so obstinate and narrow-minded. Tomorrow you won't remember a word of this conversation."
"My dear, at this moment I'm as sober as your head is thick. I will remember, Clarice, so don't test me. And don't think you can scheme behind my back, because I know all your tricks. You leave that kid alone. You're not going to fuck him up the way you did Patrick. Is that clear?"
"How dare you," Clarice seethed. "You were the one who never had a moment to spare for. . . William? William?"
When the click was followed by a dial tone she slammed the phone down. Quivering with rage, she picked it up again and called her accountant. After firing him she felt better. But not much. William couldn't tell her what to do. And she didn't need his permission to try and recover her only grandson. But she did need another tack. Myra was craftier than she'd thought, hiding under the protection of two men. Strange men at that. It was most unlike the shy, excruciatingly polite little blond Patrick had dragged home all those years ago.
Almost fourteen. God.
Clarice shuddered at the memory of Patrick's words as he presented the cringing girl. "Mother, you remember Myra. You threw her out of your school when you found out I was seeing her. She's pregnant. I've decided to marry her."
The cruelty in his voice. The vengeful triumph in his eyes.
Oh yes, antipathy had been immediate on her part. The girl's soft uneducated drawl had been painful to Clarice's cultured ears. And while she envisioned all manner of lovely clothes in her work, Myra cared little for her own appearance. She wore her simple cotton dresses and flaunted her burgeoning belly until Clarice became physically ill at the sight of her.
Then, to make matters worse, the little tramp actually made a show of attempting to improve. She read books and took classes and made one embarrassing faux pas after another in front of family and friends. Clarice finally fled to Europe until after the baby was born. The humiliation was too great to endure.
Leaving had been a mistake, however, for in her absence Myra flourished under the extravagance of William and the pampering of the house servants. Patrick had little to do with her, but Myra didn't seem to care. When Clarice returned to this unsavory state of affairs and saw how the girl had managed to usurp her own position in just a few short months, she felt she had confirmation of the true nature of her son's wife.
And Myra hadn't changed. She was still a sly little gold digger, only now she was using her son instead of her body as a bargaining chip. Her claim of wanting nothing from Clarice was merely a clever way to up the ransom through a grandmother's desperation. Clarice could not allow her to succeed. She would not. Her brilliant grandson was not going to be tainted by the greed and avarice of his common mother.
She needed him with her so she could teach him everything he needed to know about the role his blood had awarded him. With Cal at her side nothing else would matter. Her life would take on new meaning, new importance, and new glamour.
If William disagreed, then so be it. The worst he could do was divorce her—but he wouldn't, and both of them knew it. Her attorney would crucify him. William would rage and threaten and perhaps even cut her off as promised, but only temporarily. Eventually he would see her point and agree something had to be done about... that woman.
Clarice closed her eyes and leaned back. Yes of course. It was time to stop playing by the rules created by those with no stake in the matter. Time to stop being so gracious about the upkeep of the garden and take matters firmly in hand. In a battle with lowly weeds, complete extirpation was required. The rose must be allowed to reach full, lustrous bloom without hindrance of any kind.
All she needed was a very clever gardener.
CHAPTER 23
Myra had to fight to keep from recoiling when Jinx Lahr put his leathery hand on her arm. He smiled at her. "That was a real fine dinner, Myra. Hope to see you again soon."
She forced her mouth into a smile and looked at the others. They were waiting by the Lincoln. Only she and Jinx stood on the porch.
"I'm glad you enjoyed it, Jinx. Have fun at Bingo."
The old man winked. "I will. You tell Cal I'm sorry to have missed visitin' with him. And take good care of that boy. He appears to be a valuable commodity."
Myra's mouth opened and she was still staring as the Lincoln disappeared down the drive. What the hell had he meant by that? When a fly landed on her nose she brushed it away and turned back to the house. Maybe she was reading too much into the statement. Cal's intelligence could definitely be considered a valuable commodity. His smarts were no secret. Many Denke children had ridden the bus to the Johnson school with Cal. The omniscient Jinx would of course be aware of her son's talents. Darwin, she supposed, may even have bragged about the boy, or Patrick.
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