by Baron, Mike;
The Lake County Sheriff’s Department questioned Pratt for two hours while crime scene techs photographed the bodies. They recovered the Ruger to match it against holes in the wall and in Munz. They had a hard time accepting that Munz was already dead when Pratt shot him but they were just being cops. Deputies found tufts of fur clinging to the broken glass in the second-floor bedroom invaded by a falling tree. Eric had come into the house through the second-story window.
Police were dubious when Pratt explained that Eric had tracked his father across the Midwest.
“Tell me how, Pratt,” Lake County Sheriff Edmund Little said, seated across from him in the dining room, recorder and notepad on the table. He wore beige khakis and a brown tie with a pig tack. His balding head and mild features, burnt by the sun, gave him the appearance of a toasted acorn. “Tell me how a feral boy even survives while crossing twelve hundred miles on foot without being seen.”
“Sir, I have no idea. It’s no more incredible than Moon taking out three Flintstone ops in a storm. You need a child psychologist. Maybe an expert in paranormal activity.”
Pratt fished in his wallet and found Morgan Teitlebaum’s card. The sheriff took it, pausing to read her credentials.
“May I have this?”
“Sure.”
Calloway appeared in the door, nodded at Little and winked at Pratt.
DEA agent Barlin arrived at eight-fifteen and went immediately to view Moon’s corpse. The coroner had already sealed Moon’s hands in plastic but there was no mistaking the shaved skull or the tats. Pratt couldn’t resist looking. In daylight and death Moon seemed diminished. It was hard to imagine he had wreaked such damage.
A plump female deputy with a master’s in psychology gently questioned Ginger, who held and stroked her boy on the bed in the guest bedroom.
By the time Morgan Teitlebaum arrived, two television crews were camped out on Makepeace Road offering the first tentative reports against a backdrop of massed police vehicles and law enforcement officers. Someone switched on the flat-screen TV in the den. News reporters characterized the crime as a “mass slaying” by a “disgruntled former boyfriend of Mrs. Munz who may have been active in a methamphetamine ring.”
Teitlebaum spoke with police for a half hour before introducing herself to Ginger and Eric. Taking the deputy’s place, she closed the door behind her. Teitlebaum remained in the room with mother and child for two hours.
The police finished questioning Pratt at eleven forty-five. He was free to go but chose to remain until Teitlebaum came out of the room. Agent Barlin found Pratt on the back deck helping to clear storm debris.
“The DEA is offering a reward for information leading to the breakup of a major drug ring.”
“That would be the boy’s,” Pratt said, using pruning shears he’d found in the garage. “How’s Mrs. Munz?”
“She left in the ambulance a half hour ago. She wanted to stay but she’s having some kind of flare-up that requires hospitalization.”
“And the kid?”
“Still in the bedroom with the shrink. Jesus Christ, Pratt. Every time I see you, you look worse than the last. Maybe you ought to go to the emergency room.”
“I just want to sleep.”
“You’re free to go as far as I’m concerned. You have my card? You need me for anything just give me a holler.”
“Thanks, Barlin.”
“Stay out of trouble.”
Pratt threaded his way out front, where he found Calloway talking to the Lake County sheriff. Little shook Pratt’s hand.
“Son, you done a good thing, busting up this meth ring. Very sorry for your loss.”
For a moment Pratt went blank.
Cass.
They were talking about Cass. Numbly, he looked around. Cass’ truck remained at the curb. He couldn’t just take it. He looked at Calloway.
“I need a ride.”
Calloway nodded. “Let’s go.”
Pratt slid in the passenger side of the city’s Crown Vic. By the time they reached the end of the driveway he was asleep.
CHAPTER 68
Calloway poked Pratt on the leg. “Wake up.”
Pratt blinked himself awake and saw that they were in his driveway. He opened the car door and swung his legs out.
“Mind if I come in with you, see what Moon might have left?”
Pratt pulled himself to his feet with the door frame. “No. Come on.”
Pratt fumbled with his keys. The nap had only served to focus his exhaustion. He got the door open and stumbled into the living room. He collapsed on the sofa. Calloway followed him into the house and went room to room. When he had finished the first floor he went down the stairs to the basement.
Before Pratt went to prison and found Christ, he never would have permitted a cop anywhere near his home, warrant or not. But Calloway was different. Calloway had showed respect. And Pratt had nothing to hide. The only evidence of sin was a half-empty bottle of Wild Turkey in the kitchen cabinet and a roach Cass had left in his bedroom.
Pratt’s cell phone sang. He reached into his pocket, didn’t recognize the number, and turned it off.
Calloway was a long time in the basement.
Pratt was sound asleep on the leather sofa when Calloway came back upstairs. Calloway quietly let himself out and shut the door.
Steady knocking woke Pratt. He checked his watch. It was four o’clock. He sat up, parted the blinds and looked out the window. There was a WMAD news van at the curb. A familiar-looking news babe and her cameraman were at the door.
Pratt opened the door.
“Mr. Pratt, I’m Sonia Tyrell from WMAD News. What part did you play in the death of alleged drug kingpin Eugene Moon?”
The camera guy replaced his head with the camera. Pratt flipped them the bird and shut the door. The pounding resumed.
With an inarticulate noise of animal desperation, Pratt headed for the basement. The spare bedroom in the basement was in the rear of the house. When he shut the door he couldn’t hear the knocking. Pratt flopped down on the bed and pulled the pillow over his head.
Now the rush of blood through his head kept him awake. He’d arrived at that stage of exhaustion where he was jazzed by everything that had happened. Too much nervous energy to sleep. He considered talking to the news crew, but they’d get it all wrong anyway and he didn’t trust himself not to play the fool.
He didn’t know what to do. It was the type of situation that cried out for Bloom. Pratt was drained, running on fumes. The reserve tank was empty.
He flipped the TV on with the remote. The five o’clock news was on in five minutes. Pratt went into the bathroom, relieved himself and splashed cold water on his face. Back in the bedroom he flopped on the bed.
The storm led the news. Tornado touched down in northern Illinois, two people missing and feared dead. The Munz massacre was next. A helicopter view showed myriad police and emergency vehicles jamming the broad turn-around in front of the house.
The voiceover sounded like the info babe at the front door. “The Lake County sheriff says alleged drug kingpin Eugene Moon used the cover of the storm to attack this residence. Five people are dead, including the couple who lived here and three Flintstone Security agents who had been hired to protect them. Sheriff Edmund Little will hold a news conference tomorrow at nine a.m. to discuss the killings. In the meantime they are withholding the names of the dead pending notification of next of kin.”
The view changed to the front of Pratt’s house. “According to Sheriff Little, private investigator Joshua Pratt triggered the series of events culminating in the horrific tragedy. The couple who lived at the murder house allegedly hired Pratt to locate a missing child.
“Earlier today we tried to speak to Mr. Pratt …”
Pratt watched himself flipping the bird on TV. A black dot covered his finger. Pratt turned it off.
Danny, Danny, what do I do about these jackals?
Pratt’s stomach yowled. He went upstairs, thr
ough the kitchen to the living room, and peeked through the blinds. No news vans. He went into the kitchen and opened the freezer, surveying the field of Marie Callender and Stouffer’s. Lasagna was always a good bet. He zapped it in the microwave and popped a Point.
Pratt turned the microwave container upside down over a chipped plate, took his meal and beer out on the back deck. It was dusk and the woods twinkled with thousands of fireflies. Mosquitoes dive-bombed Pratt until he got up and switched on the yellow lights. A raccoon scurried through the brush.
Through the trees to his left Pratt could make out the ribs of another McMansion rising from the soil. The whole neighborhood was on the chopping block. It was only a matter of time before somebody offered him a half mil for his home and lot. Well he’d cross that bridge when it came to him.
Pratt took his dish into the kitchen, laid it in the sink and went into the bathroom to apply Chiggerex to his mosquito bites. He was still exhausted but a toothed edge of raw anxiety sawed at his soul. There was always the Wild Turkey.
No. He didn’t want to wake up tomorrow with a dirty sock in his mouth. TV was crap. Chaplain Dorgan said, when all else fails, read. There was always the Bible. He went into his bedroom to get it and his eyes fell to a pile of sky blue cotton beneath the bed.
Cass’ panties.
The sky fell. He was overwhelmed by a sense of loss so keen it threatened to obliterate him. He couldn’t breathe. Something had sucked all the air out of the room. Too late he realized what he should have known.
She had really loved him.
She had given her life for him.
Pratt sank to the floor and moaned in misery. He stayed that way for a long time, thinking about the guns in his safe.
CHAPTER 69
The knocking woke him. Pratt lay in bed twisted up in the sheets like a croissant. At some point he must have gotten off the floor and fallen asleep. Making a pit stop Pratt padded barefoot through the house, wearing only pants. The cable box told him it was 7:45 in the morning.
Sun glared in through the blinds. Pratt didn’t have to look. He knew who it was. He opened the door on three separate clusters of news people, two from local affiliates and one from CBS.
Without Danny he was lost.
“Mr. Pratt! What can you tell us about the so-called ‘dog boy?’”
“Mr. Pratt! How were you able to locate Eugene Moon when the FBI and DEA couldn’t?”
Across the street Lowry came out on his front porch, folded his arms and watched. George and Gracie charged the curb, barking hysterically.
Sonia Tyrell was back, inching forward with her mike and cameraman. Pratt had played his biker card and was smart enough to realize he had to make a living. If he didn’t manage his image, they would. He had to say something. He held his hands up palms out and there was a sudden bristling among the media as their antennae quivered.
George and Gracie barked and barked.
“Folks, Mrs. Munz hired me to find her son, Eric. I was able to find the father through my connections and he turned out to be a full-blown psychopath. Had I known it would end like this I might have reconsidered. What happened yesterday was a tragedy that didn’t have to happen. Moon should have been brought to justice years ago.”
All yammered at once. Sonia elbowed her way to the front and stuck her mike in Pratt’s face. “What connections?”
“My connections with motorcycle clubs.”
“Don’t you mean gangs, Mr. Pratt? Weren’t you a member of the Bedouins and didn’t you serve six years at Waupun for various offenses including aggravated assault and trafficking in guns?”
“That’s all true, Sonia, but with the help of my Lord and Savior Jesus Christ, I have put my past behind me. I now walk in the light of the Lord.”
Sonia rolled her eyes. Pratt smiled.
The crowd squawked. Pratt tamped them down. “Folks, that’s all I’m going to say. I say any more I might embarrass myself. Good morning and God bless.”
Some of them got it but they yelled anyway. Pratt went inside and shut the door.
He found his cell phone on the coffee table in the living room next to the V-twin engine. He turned the phone back on. He had fifteen phone calls, some with voice messages, mostly from news organizations. He listened to his messages. Two were from Trans-Continental asking him to call at any time. One from Ginger. “Call me, Pratt. You brought my boy back to me and I want to thank you.”
She sounded weak but happy. She was better prepared than most to deal with tragedy. He wanted to call back but she was probably sleeping. He wanted to speak to Teitlebaum but it was too early. He wanted to call a lot of people. As far as Pratt was concerned the only advantage to living in California was you could call anybody on the East Coast as soon as you woke up.
Pratt went into the kitchen and made breakfast with English muffins, cream cheese, a banana, an apple, and yogurt. He mixed a killer pot of coffee. He got up, went to the living room, bent at the knees and lifted the V-twin off the asbestos pad, carrying it like a kung fu acolyte into the garage, where he gently maneuvered it into the custom frame he’d commissioned from Thunder Mountain Harley Davidson in Fort Collins.
At nine he phoned Teitlebaum, got her box. He phoned Calloway.
“Calloway.”
“What’s going on?”
“Dude from the university took samples for a DNA test. The boy and Ginger just left for University Hospital. You can probably catch ’em there in a couple of hours. You’re in line for a DEA cash reward.”
“How much?”
“Ten Gs.”
“You’re shitting me.”
“It’s real. I gotta go. Talk atcha later.”
Pratt called Trans-Continental. They wanted him to recover the three missing Desmos and offered five thousand per machine, including the one he’d already found.
The Ducatis could be anywhere. Pratt told them he’d think about it.
Somebody opened his unlocked front door. “Josh?” It was Lowry, sent by his wife to make sure everything was all right.
“Come in, Dave.”
Lowry went up to Pratt and embraced him like a long-lost brother. Pratt was shocked. It’s what a biker would have done. “Josh, I’m so sorry for your loss. If there’s anything Helen and I can do, please don’t hesitate to let us know.”
“Thanks, Dave.”
“You need a place to hide out, come on over.”
“I appreciate that, Dave. Would you like a cup of coffee?”
They took their coffee out on the back deck. The sound of hammers and saws drifted through the trees.
“That was a fine thing you did, putting Morgan together with that boy.”
“You have any kids, Dave?”
“Carson, she’s just starting with a big law firm in Chicago. And Blake, he’s twenty-two, he’s at the Air Force Academy in Colorado Springs. Do you?”
“None that I know of,” Pratt automatically answered.
“You see things differently when you’re a parent,” Lowry said.
“I guess.”
“Welp, I got a tee time. I’ll be seeing you.”
“Thanks, Dave.”
Lowry let himself out. Pratt went for a ride around New Glarus, grabbed a brat at the New Glarus Apple Orchard, got home around two, spent the rest of the day in the garage without his cell phone working on the basket-case Harley. He watched some Ultimate Fighter reruns and turned in around ten.
Pratt got up at seven, finished off the muffins and went for a jog slower than his usual pace due to injuries. All the stitches held. Back at the ranch he showered and continued to work on the basket case.
Pratt’s phone hummed. It was Ginger. It was ten a.m. She sounded weak.
“What up?” Pratt answered.
“I need to see you, Josh. Can you come down here?”
CHAPTER 70
Pratt saddled up the Road King and hit the highway, stopping for breakfast at a Burger King on the Beltline. Ginger was back on Makepeace Road
. Her sister-in-law Gwen, Nate’s sister, was with her. Behind Gwen’s Porsche Cayenne sat a black Chrysler 300 identical to the one in which Bonner had died. Behind the Chrysler was a van with “BEST GLASS” stenciled on the side. Behind the van was a pick-up truck that said, “HARRISON TREE SERVICE.” Pratt heard sawing and pounding.
Pratt went through the open front door. A vinyl runner had been set on the hardwood floor and stairway to protect them from the workmen’s boots. A man in coveralls came down the stairs carrying a paper bag filled with broken glass. He nodded at Pratt.
Pratt found Ginger and Gwen on the deck seated at a round table with an overarching umbrella tilted toward the late-morning sun. Ginger relaxed on a chaise lounge wearing loose-fitting cotton trousers and a beige blouse, one hand resting lightly on her stomach. Gwen, a matronly redhead, sat with her elbows on the table going through a stack of papers. Two tree guys sawed up a fallen limb in the yard.
Ginger waved but did not get up. “Josh. Thank you for coming.” She introduced him to Gwen, who stood and hugged him. She was one of those women who unself-consciously hugged people whom she liked.
Pratt sat. “Where’s Eric?”
“Morgan took him to University Hospital,” Ginger said. “They’re going to see what they can do about his spine, his hair, his skin and his teeth.”
Pratt thought about the basket-case Harley. He’d been working on it for years.
“The funeral’s tomorrow at Redeemer Episcopal Church in Janesville.”
Pratt took out his pad and made a note. “What did you want to see me about?”
“Morgan rushed the DNA test through the school. Eric is not my son.”
“What?”
Ginger looked adrift. “He’s not my son. He’s not Eric.”
Pratt looked at the trees. “Jesus.”
“Pratt, I want you to continue looking for Eric.”
“Ginger, I wouldn’t know where to start. I had one idea. I’m not that good a detective.”
Ginger sat up and gripped Pratt’s knee with a steely claw. “Now you listen to me, Pratt. You darn near accomplished the impossible. You found that boy and you removed an evil man. You’re a better detective than you know. I have faith in you. Please. Give it one week. Money is not an object.”