In the picture, Jake Donovan was a kid. While the man he’d spoken to only minutes before had a full, graying beard and soft features, this picture showed a clean-cut young man in his twenties, with a strong chin, a fighter’s nose, and piercing blue eyes. Sherwood used the edge of his hand to cover up everything but the eyes and the hairline, and magically, Jake Brighton appeared.
“Well, I’ll be damned,” Sherwood mumbled.
“Damned my ass!” Irene exploded. “We’ll be crucified!”
Sherwood regarded Irene with the expression of a disappointed father. The oh-so-sure-of-herself savior of the law enforcement world now looked suspiciously like she might cry. If she hadn’t been such an asshole, Sherwood might have felt sorry for her. Someone knocked on his office door.
“What’s this ‘we’ shit, Irene? Donovan was never my prisoner.” He stood up and opened the door to reveal a clerk standing nervously on the other side. Barely out of his teens, the young man clearly knew he was interrupting. “Sorry, Chief, but Agent Rivers has a phone call.”
“Tell whoever it is that I’m in a meeting,” Irene snapped without looking. “I’ll call them back when I get a chance.”
The kid seemed to shrink as he stood there. “Um, I tried that, ma’am, but he said I should tell you it’s Peter Frankel. He said you’d take the call.”
Color drained from Irene’s face, like someone had pulled a plug. “Oh, shit,” she groaned.
Sherwood cringed on her behalf, wondering if he should help Irene into a chair. Instead, he offered his own. “You can take it at my desk, if you’d like,” he said. “I’ll have the dispatcher check to see if Donovan’s still with my patrolman.”
She looked confused for a second, then nodded. “Thank you.”
Sherwood smiled. Peter Frankel’s reputation in the law enforcement community was not one of love and understanding. The call rang through just as he closed the door. Right now he wouldn’t have traded places with Irene for a million dollars.
The story was believable enough, Jake thought. Rather than having this cop go to the trouble of taking him all the way out to the boonies, why not just drop him off at the hospital? “My mother’s there getting some outpatient surgery done,” he’d explained. “It’d be a nice surprise for her, and she’d probably love to have the company.”
The cop bought it all the way, oblivious to the tremor in Jake’s hands and the slight crack in his voice. And why wouldn’t he buy it? If nothing else, it got him off the hook for a long drive to nowhere. And who wouldn’t be a bit jumpy after spending the last few hours under arrest? That’d unnerve anyone.
The outpatient clinic shared an entrance with the emergency room. Officer Slavka pulled right up to the entrance, his badge and light bar buying a few extra yards that would have been off limits to civilian vehicles.
“Here you go, Mr. Brighton,” Jason announced. “Doorto-door service.”
Jake shook hands with the patrolman, then climbed out of the car. “Thanks for the ride,” he said.
“I hope your mother’s okay.”
Jake smiled nervously, searching the cop’s tone for signs of sarcasm. “Thank you,” he said again. “I’m sure she will be.”
He walked purposefully through the door labeled “Admissions,” just like he belonged there, and continued all the way to the receptionist’s desk before pausing at a water fountain to see if he’d been followed. He took a long drink-long enough to convince himself that he was alone-then started working his way nonchalantly toward the front door.
Outside again, and free at least for the moment, he fought the urge to run. He was in the open again, and if he wasn’t mistaken, there were tons more cop cars out on the street today than usual.
Keep it together, he told himself. Three more blocks and you’re home free.
He turned left at the corner of Jefferson Street and William amp; Mary Avenue, and there it was: the staging area. If Carolyn hadn’t left yet-and he was certain, now, that she hadn’t-in five minutes they’d all be a family again, and then the most immediate crisis would be over. Once they were together, they’d be infinitely mobile; and with mobility came freedom.
The sign for U-Lockit Storage rose a good fifteen feet over the sidewalk. The light inside the plastic sign hadn’t worked for as long as Jake had been using the place; much like the automatic wooden arm which was supposed to keep unauthorized visitors out. Apparently, one visitor-authorized or otherwise-had taken on the challenge, splintering the wood all over the driveway.
Units 626 and 627 lay all the way in the back of the complex, well out of the way from all but a few similar concrete storage bays. Of all the bills the Brightons paid each month, U-Lockit always got top priority. As long as the account stayed current, he figured no one would feel compelled to look inside and see just how hugely noncompliant they’d been with the rental covenants.
Jake slowed his pace as he approached their units and stopped completely before turning the last corner. He saw nothing; heard no sounds; but the massive, pin-tumbler lock was missing from the right-hand door. That meant either that Carolyn was inside or that she’d already left him.
No, she was there, all right. She knew better than to leave without locking the place back up. Checking cautiously over both shoulders, he hurried down the last fifty feet of roadway. As he reached for the handle to lift the door, he stopped abruptly, remembering the firepower stored inside. Everybody was a bit tense right now. Startling Carolyn could be a very big mistake.
Stepping away from the door, with his back pressed against the concrete fire wall that separated their two units, he rapped lightly with his knuckle. “Carolyn, it’s me!” He shouted louder than he wanted to, but it was important for her to know that he wasn’t a stranger.
“Jake?”
He heard the recognition in her voice; she was just making sure. “Yeah, it’s me. I’m opening the door, okay?”
She answered by opening it for him. As the overhead door rumbled loudly to waist height, he bent low and scooted inside.
CHAPTER SIX
Jason Slavka had already cleared the traffic circle and was just a couple of blocks from the station when he heard his call sign requested over the air. He pulled the mike from its clip on the center console and he keyed the transmit button. “Two-Four David.”
“Two-Four David, what’s your status?”
Damn, he thought. Time for an ethics check. He’d hoped to sneak back into the station without changing his status on the board; that way no one would dispatch him on any calls, and he’d be able to finish the pile of paperwork on his desk.
Ah, screw it. “I’m ten-eight, en route back to headquarters,” he said. The answer virtually volunteered him for another call.
“Um, Two-Four David…” He could hear commotion in the background as someone distracted the dispatcher with questions. “Stand by, Two-Four David.”
Jason chuckled and shook his head. “Stand by?” he asked the radio, talking to it off the air, as if addressing a person. “You called me, remember?”
The speaker popped again a few seconds later. “Ah, Two-Four David, what’s the ten-twenty of your passenger?”
“I dropped him off at the hospital. His mother’s having an operation of some sort.”
This time the commotion in the background was louder-much louder, in fact-and Jason distinctly heard the word “shit!” boomed by somebody. If he didn’t know better, he’d have sworn it was Chief Sherwood’s voice. “Okay, Two-Four David.” The dispatcher’s voice sounded like an island of calm in a sea of bedlam. “Stand by to copy.”
“Oh, God, Jake, you’re safe!” Carolyn threw her arms around his neck and hugged him tightly enough to hurt. “I’ve been worried sick about you.” Inside, the place was black, lighted by a single kerosene lantern on the floor. But the work had all been done.
Once the adrenaline kicked in, she’d become oblivious to everything but her mission. She’d flown through the storage bays, collecting their prepacked d
uffel bags and second-guessing herself at every turn.
She’d finished early-nearly an hour ago-and that’s when the panic had really started to sink in. If family came first, then how come she had everything else done, yet no one to talk to?
Loneliness was a horrible thing-if only for a few minutes at a time-and loneliness in the dark was worst of all. In the dim light of the kerosene lamp, her fears had taken on a physical dimension. She sensed that if she’d tried, she could have reached out and felt her fears with her hands, and the more she’d told herself that she was being silly, the larger and darker the fears had become.
She’d found the pint of Jack Daniel’s without really even looking for it, buried deep in the middle of her duffel. She dimly remembered hiding it there a long time ago-a time when the bottle was her first priority. She told herself that all she needed was a swig-a single pull-to bring everything under control. Well, maybe two. It burned wonderfully as it sought that place in her soul where the body manufactured courage. As the level fell below the top of the label, though, she was jolted by vivid memories of a different monster, and she’d returned the bottle to the spot where it belonged, in the fold of her denim jacket, about a quarter of the way down from the top of the bag.
From the movement of her shoulders, Jake knew she was crying. She smelled of fear and dust and sweat. And, dammit, of booze. His vision blurred as he held her and kissed the top of her head. “I’m so sorry,” he whispered.
The embrace felt magical; hypnotic almost. They’d been through so much together over the years-so much trembling and crying and running-that sometimes Jake wondered if the world could possibly spin without her. The drinking drove him nuts, and the screaming in the night terrified him almost as much as it did her, but she was the only person in the world who knew who he truly was. Even his own son didn’t know-couldn’t know.
The realization hit Jake like a hammer. He pushed Carolyn just far enough away to see her eyes. “Where’s Travis?”
He sat all the way in the back of the school bus, in the corner, right where the teachers and chaperons expected the Farm Meadows kids to sit. He felt ridiculous with his purple eye, and the cheap imitation Oakleys he wore to camouflage the bruise really didn’t hide a thing.
Travis had already been reminded three times-once getting on the bus at the school and then twice more once they arrived at the stupid plantation house-that one more fight would get him thrown out of school. Like that would just friggin’ break his heart.
He was sick of school as it was; tired of always being the new kid-every asshole’s most convenient punching bag. His dad had told him that this move might really be the last one; that this job might be the one to stick. And wouldn’t you know it? After moving every damn year that he could remember, from one dump to another, this butthole of a town was the place his parents decided to sink some roots. Wonderful. If you asked him, the whole state of South Carolina sucked.
To distract himself from his misery, he thought of Eric Lampier, wondering if Pussy Boy was able to breathe through his nose yet. Poor baby couldn’t even haul his butt into school this morning. Travis’s smile triggered a stab of pain in his eye.
Yeah, it was worth it.
The “fight,” such as it was, lasted all of three seconds. After enduring a good two minutes of trash talk in the cafeteria from Eric and his Snob Hill pals, Travis reached his limit when Eric referred to him and his friends as “trailer park shitheads.” He simply stood up, smashed Eric’s nose like a cherry tomato, then sat back down to finish his Tater Tots.
The fountain of blood and snot ignited an explosion of screams, mostly from the Snob Hill girls, with Eric howling right along with them. God, what a mess. It took maybe two minutes for word to travel to the Gestapo. You’d have thought somebody had a gun, the way they swarmed in there. No one even questioned who was the guilty party. While the nurse slobbered all over Eric, the principal, Mr. Menefee, dragged Travis off toward his office. As they reached the hallway, some panicked grown-up shouted for an ambulance. Was that not the most ridiculous thing you’ve ever heard? An ambulance for a damn broken nose!
“I’ve had it with you kids!” Menefee growled. That’s the way it always was. In the minds of faculty, everything a Farm Meadows kid did somehow implicated all other Farm Meadows kids as silent accomplices.
That trailer park kids were unwelcome around there was the worst-kept secret in the world. Best Travis could figure out, J. E. B. Stuart Junior High had been the exclusive domain of the Snob Hill squeaky-cleans until a couple of years ago, when some redistricting bullshit mingled “Farm Meadows trash” with the “Hill youngsters.” He didn’t pretend to understand all the politics-frankly, he didn’t care-but one thing was sure: the teachers and the school administration wanted things back the way they used to be.
For the life of him, though, Travis couldn’t see why people complained so much. From his perspective, having Farm Meadows kids in the school made the business of discipline a no-brainer for everybody. If there was blood on the tile someplace, punish a trailer park kid. It didn’t really matter that it might be the wrong kid, because everybody from Farm Meadows was guilty of something. Every time a Hill kid smoked, cussed, picked his nose, or jerked off, it was because a Farm Meadows kid had talked him into it. Travis thought it was hysterical. Like there was some conspiracy among him and his friends to lure rich kids away from their brick palaces to come live in shit-heap trailers.
At J. E. B. Stuart Junior High, a rich kid got to do or say whatever he wanted. Such were his constitutional rights. For Travis and his pals, though, the Constitution seemed to end at the point where they told the rich kids to fuck off. And to touch one of them-particularly with a fist-was more than the system could bear.
Mr. Menefee- Der Fuhrer to Travis and his friends, thanks to German class-was as pissed as Travis had ever seen him. That’s the word he used, too. Pissed. Travis wondered if he was still going to be “pissed” when he talked to Eric Lampier’s lawyer-daddy. Somehow he didn’t think so. Perturbed, maybe? Acrimonious (a brand-new word to Travis)? Certainly, he’d be something more elevated than pissed.
Menefee had had it with Travis’s antics. He refused to tolerate violent behavior in his school, goddammit, and no, he didn’t give a shit who started it. They should be ashamed of themselves. When Travis mentioned that there was no “they”-that this was strictly between Eric and him-Menefee seemed unimpressed.
“Are you going to yell at Eric, too,” Travis had asked, “for swearing at me and my friends?” For an instant, Travis thought the man might punch him. Instead, he told Travis to mind his own damned business-another expression that was sure to be edited from the Lampier version.
“This is it, Brighton,” Menefee concluded, his face beet red and his hands trembling. “One more time and I’ll toss you out of here forever!”
Big effing deal, Travis didn’t say. In the end, he escaped with academic probation-whatever the hell that was-and a stern warning to review the Code of Behavior. Yet to be decided was the issue of whether or not the Lampier family would press charges-a concern rendered moot later that afternoon while Travis was winding his way through the woods toward Mike Howe’s place to watch some X-rated videos his friend had found in a closet.
Terry Lampier-Eric’s older brother-and two of his high school buddies just materialized out of nowhere, blocking his way. Instantly, Travis knew he was in deep trouble, and he took off in the opposite direction, running as fast as he could. But the jocks had him beat at all levels: height, weight, and speed. They caught up with him after maybe a dozen steps, clotheslining him and bouncing him off the hard-packed dirt path. The details were a little fuzzy after that, but he remembered putting up a valiant defense, all things considered, until an early shot to his balls drove all the fight right out of him. He didn’t even remember what nailed him in the eye. All he knew was, one minute it felt like his guts had exploded, and the next, he was ten feet off the path, under a bunch of bushes.
As he pulled himself to his feet, he’d marveled that everything still worked. He wondered if maybe they thought they’d killed him and then stashed his body out in the woods. Either way, he was grateful to be in as good shape as he was. They could have killed him for real.
By the time Travis had made his way back to his trailer, the sun had started to dip, taking the temperature down along with it. With the whole back and side ripped out of his T-shirt, he felt cold. He felt dizzy for a while, too, and thought that he might have to sit down, but the feeling passed just as he turned onto his street.
Bullet Boobs Barnett was out in her garden as he approached, pretending to mind flowers when in fact minding everyone else’s business. She took one look at Travis and freaked. “Oh, my God, boy, are you all right?”
From the look on her face, Travis figured he must have looked a lot worse than he felt. “I’m fine,” he said. “I fell down. I just want to get home.”
Mrs. Barnett arose from her knees with some effort and waddled toward the boy, pausing to step carefully over the six-inch white wire fence that defined her flower beds. “Fell down,” she scoffed. “I don’t believe that for a minute. Here, let me take a look at you.”
Travis never stopped walking. “Really, Mrs. Barnett,” he said without looking back, “I’m fine. My mom should be home now.”
“You tell her you need to see a doctor!”
He acknowledged her with a wave over his shoulder, then tried to hike his tattered shirt back into place.
I’m doomed, he moaned silently. If he got that kind of reaction out of Bullet Boobs, God only knew how bad his mom was going to freak out. He didn’t have to wait long to see. Apparently, Mrs. Barnett couldn’t contain herself long enough for him to break the news himself. As he turned the last corner, both his mom and his dad came running down the street to meet him.
“Oh, my God!” his mom yelled. “Travis!”
The boy instinctively checked over his shoulder to see if anyone was watching as his folks descended on him.
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