Dan shook his head. “Just thinking.”
“Really? What a surprise. About anything in particular?”
Dan nodded. “I’d like to meet this kid.”
“What kid?”
Dan pulled the photograph of Bélanger from his breast pocket and laid it on the table.
“You’re not serious?” Trevor stared at him. “He’s already killed three people. Were you thinking he might consent to a quiet little interview with you?”
Dan shrugged. “I think we’d have things in common. He comes from the same kind of background as me.”
Outside the wind blew wildly. Rain slashed at the windows. The storm was coming on full tilt.
“I might remind you it’s a background you’ve spent a lot of time distancing yourself from,” Trevor said.
Dan shrugged. “I have a messy past. I don’t deny it. In the end it made me stronger, less afraid. But this kid’s only sixteen. I’m more than twice his age and I can see these things now. I need to talk to him and let him know it gets better. That it can get better.”
“Not with three murders on his conscience. He’s likely to be desperate.”
“I know this kid, Trevor. He thinks no one understands what he went through. And maybe it’s true, but it doesn’t matter. Not really.”
“You think it would help him to try to relate to you?”
Dan studied the picture on the table. The wary eyes and dark circles beneath them that spoke of inner torture, things that haunted him, real or otherwise.
“Who are you, my friend? Just another lost boy? Where are you right now?”
Trevor put a hand on Dan’s arm, pulling him back to the real world. “If he’s living in abandoned warehouses and hiding from the police, you can’t even begin to imagine the state of mind he must be in.”
“Yes, I can. I slept in parks. I sold my body to survive.”
“But no one was hunting you down for murder.” Trevor studied Dan’s face. “You’re worrying me.”
Dan came around the table and hugged him so tightly that Trevor had to make him stop.
“I won’t endanger myself,” Dan said. “Not so long as I’ve got you and Ked in my life.”
Trevor rubbed his arm. “Okay. So what do we do now?”
Dan looked up. “We bring things from the darkness into the light.”
Trevor gave him a blank look. “I was referring specifically to Donny’s invitation.”
“Oh, that. I guess we better get over there.”
It was time for the posse party. Donny had invited Domingo as well. They all bumped into one another in the lobby. Domingo’s hair was slicked to her skull like a Hollywood-styled mercenary-for-hire, as though she’d come groomed for the part.
To Dan, it seemed as if the lobby in Donny’s building was perpetually filled with twenty-somethings in search of the next party. Their ringing hilarity was at odds with the small, silent cabal gathered to help form a plan to spring Lester from his prison-home.
The concierge nodded to the twenty-somethings while casting gloomy glances at Dan, Trevor, and Domingo, as though they’d come to storm the walls of the Bastille. Donny came down to meet them, hugging them solemnly one by one.
“Hi, and thank you very much for coming,” he intoned like some novice diplomat addressing a committee convened to discuss nuclear disarmament between hostile nations.
He looked worn and haggard. Dan wondered if he’d been sleeping erratically the past few weeks while thinking of ways to rescue Lester. No one spoke as they rode up in the elevator, while the fidgety twenty-somethings checked their cellphones for nonexistent messages.
“I’ve spent a long time thinking about things,” Donny began as they exited into his hallway.
They waited till he closed his condo door and put the lock on the chain, cloistering them like a party of counter-revolutionaries planning an assassination. Gavrilo Princip and his cronies hunting the Archduke Ferdinand.
“My first thought was to offer them money for Lester, but I realized that was not a very practical solution. Not to mention that I don’t have much to offer.”
Dan shook his head. “That would be tantamount to buying a child. Besides being impractical, it’s illegal. I won’t support anything against the law.”
Donny made a face. “Well, that leaves out just about every plan I’ve come up with.”
“Then we’ll have to come up with something different,” Domingo said.
Donny ushered them into the sitting room. In place of his usual impeccable hosting, he had put out bowls of nuts and finger snacks with a tall bottle of Grey Goose beside several shot glasses and a bucket of ice. Dispensing with the frivolities was how he put it.
“Help yourselves,” he told them.
It was a solemn gathering. Donny stood with his back to the fireplace. His condo was built for maximum light exposure, leaving everyone perfectly lit as they stared at one another.
“When did you last hear from Lester?” Dan asked, thinking someone had better direct this meeting.
“A couple days ago. He called in the evening. I spoke to him briefly before he had to get off the phone. He says they monitor him night and day. It’s making him crazy. They keep him locked in his room and won’t let him leave the house without one of them by his side.”
From its position in the hall, Donny’s newest art acquisition, with its swirling twilight colours, seemed an apt rendering of his internal state. Dan wondered if he paced back and forth in front of it when he was alone.
“Not surprising,” Dan said. “He was a runaway for more than a year. They also have a good idea what sort of things he got involved in to make money while he was on the street. It’s in his best interest not to go back to that.”
“He won’t,” Donny said vehemently. “I’ve talked to him about that. It’s in the past. We need to let it rest.”
“It may be in Lester’s past,” Dan reminded him. “But it’s no doubt very much in his parents’ minds at present. They know he was involved with prostitution when he disappeared for a year. I’d be wary of his movements, too.”
Donny started to speak, but Dan held him off.
“I know what you’re going to say. Lester needs to get away from them regardless. I agree, so long as he wants to get away from them.”
“He does. I asked him.”
“Okay. So what options do we have? Kidnapping is out. I won’t support anything illegal, as I’ve said.”
Domingo used the tongs to fish an ice cube from the bucket. She splashed a little vodka into the glass after it. “What about luring him to a shopping mall or public space?” she suggested, swirling her drink. “He could just sneak away while their attention is distracted.”
“You mean some kind of vigilante rescue operation?” Dan asked. “No way. That’s still kidnapping. He’s underage.”
“For another three weeks,” Donny said, a look of resolve clinging to his features.
Dan put a hand on his forearm. “Another three weeks is not forever.”
“I won’t forgive myself if anything happens to him in the meantime.”
Dan shook his head. “Nothing’s going to happen to him that hasn’t already happened. The parents may try to brainwash him into thinking he’s straight, but they are not going to kill him.” Dan looked around the table. “The facts are simple: on his sixteenth birthday, he can voluntarily leave home and go where he wants. If they try to hold him, they can be charged with forcible confinement.”
“I told him that already. But what if he gets desperate and tries something that ends up getting him hurt?”
“That would be unfortunate,” Dan said. “Can’t you convince him to hang on till then?”
Donny shook his head. “I tried. He wouldn’t listen.”
“Okay.” Dan looked around the table. “Suggestions?”
They were all talked out. The vodka bottle was down by half. A heavy pall hung over the room. No conclusive plan of action had been reached. Donny had calme
d down, though he looked more depressed than hopeful. He was now inclined to leave things till he heard from Lester again and try to convince him to bide his confinement until the day he turned sixteen.
Dan looked at his watch. “I’m sorry, but I’ve got to leave. I’ve got minority problems of my own I need to attend to.”
“You’re not telling me Ked is acting up?” Donny said, a surprised look on his face.
“Not Ked, no.”
Trevor nodded to Domingo. “Why don’t you ask Domingo?”
Dan stared at him. “Ask her what?”
“You know. Ask her what she can tell you about this Bélanger kid.”
They all turned to Domingo. “What’s the deal?” she asked.
Dan looked down at the welter of glasses on the coffee table then back up at Domingo. “I’ve got a kid I’m trying to track down. Is there any way to look into that with your … you know?”
“What specifically do you want to know?”
Dan shrugged. “Are we dealing with a serial killer?”
Her eyebrows rose, rakish, wary. “Wow. I don’t know if I want to grapple with that. Certainly not with a head full of vodka.”
“No problem.” Dan turned away with a look of relief.
“But I could try,” she said. “If you want me to.”
Dan shrugged. “If you’re not comfortable with it …”
Domingo smiled. “Let me try. What’s his name?”
“Gaetan Bélanger. He’s sixteen years old … from Quebec.”
“Where is he now?”
“As far as we know, he’s somewhere in the west end of Toronto.”
“Okay, that’s enough for me to go on. If there’s anything there, it will come to me. It always does.”
She sat back on the sofa. They waited as she pressed her palms against her eyes. Donny went out onto the balcony and lit a cigarette.
Domingo sighed and breathed heavily. “There’s some darkness in his past. Some ghost he can’t let go of,” she said at last. “Some childhood trauma.”
Dan and Trevor exchanged looks. “Makes sense,” Dan said. “He was sexually molested by a priest.”
Domingo opened her eyes. “That’s awful. But I’m not sure it makes him a killer.” She returned to her inner visions. “He’s very frustrated. He’s searching for something. Maybe a place to live?”
“That makes perfect sense.”
She looked up. “Anything else?”
Dan nodded. “Try another kid. See if you can get anything on him.”
“Name?”
Dan’s mouth opened, but nothing came out. “I don’t know.”
Domingo waited. “I don’t think I can zero in on nobody.”
Dan nodded. “Okay. Try Little Boy Blue. That’s our code name for him.”
They waited again as she pressed her palms into her eyes. A full minute passed. Outside, six floors below, someone warbled out a Supremes song, the wonder of love still alive after all these years. Traffic spluttered past. Pigeons flapped their way against the skyline. The world ground on. Life was a noisy affair.
At last, she said, “He’s not there.”
“How so?” Dan asked.
She shook her head, hands still glued to her eyes. “It’s like he doesn’t really exist. There’s an empty space if you reach out to touch him. This kid is nowhere.”
“No one can be nowhere,” Dan said.
Domingo giggled and opened her eyes. “That’s what the Buddha said.”
Dan thought over her observations. “What do you think it means?”
She cocked her head, an inquisitive parrot. “I feel a pull when I try to picture him. I start to see him then it’s like he just disappears into thin air. But how do you vanish into thin air?”
“Actually, it makes sense in a way,” Trevor said. “Dan doesn’t think he exists.”
Dan nodded. “I think it’s a disguise. I think they’re the same person. I think Little Boy Blue is actually Gaetan Bélanger. But only when he’s out in public.”
Domingo gave him a curious look. “It really is a mystery,” she said. “I’d like to know the solution, when you figure it out.”
Dan bent down and kissed her cheek. “Thanks.”
He turned to Donny, returned from the balcony. His face was still a portrait of despair.
“I’ve got to go. Try not to drive yourself crazy about Lester. We’ll get him back. I promise.”
Twenty-Three
Little Boy Blue
Dan pulled up in his car and sat watching the retirement home. The same boarded-up doors and miraculously intact windows. It was just past eight in the morning,
a little on the cool side. Nothing stirred. At eight thirty, he got out and stretched. A quick check showed the stone was still in place at the front door. In back, everything looked intact. He tried the door. Locked. A gash of red graffiti rolled around one corner of the building, a delicate curl leading to who knew where. A surrealist surfer riding a wave to nowhere. Dan couldn’t remember seeing it before. He got back in the car and settled in for the wait. He’d brought a New York Times and a
Wendy’s combo — super-size everything. While he didn’t relish cold fries, he knew he’d want to nibble something — anything — to keep his mind off the time.
This part of the job hearkened back to his beginnings as an insurance fraud investigator, when he would disguise himself and sit invisibly back as claimants for accident insurance went about their lives, waiting to see if their actions contradicted the statements about their injuries. It was a job he’d quickly come to despise. He left as soon as he realized he was implicating innocent people just trying to get along as best they could. No sin in living, he told himself the day he quit. Let others figure out who was doing the dirty.
He finished the combo and picked up the paper. It didn’t hold his attention. He never brought books. He became too engrossed in them and forgot to keep his eye on things. The radio was annoying — light jazz, light classical, heavy rock — where was the mainstream these days? He switched over to 1010 Talk Radio and listened to the babble of people trying to express themselves, dying to be heard. So much to say, so few to listen. All the lonely people. The Beatles had it right all those years ago.
At one o’clock he told himself to leave. Nothing was happening. At two thirty he was sure he was wasting his time. Four o’clock came and went. The unshakeable Dan Sharp, Ed called him. Something to that doggedness then.
It was ten minutes to five when the figure scurried into sight at the far end of the property. Blue blazer, cap pulled well down. If Dan had had his head buried in a book he would have missed the slight movement. It was Little Boy Blue. Or rather it was Gaetan Bélanger as Little Boy Blue, so Dan believed.
The boy headed for the back, carrying a paper sack. Another fan of fast food. Dan waited a beat before he got out of the car. He walked casually up to the building then turned the corner and stealthily approached the front door, slipping inside the crepuscular interior.
He crept past the day room with its coliseum touch-up, skirting the drowned pool. He stopped and strained his ears. A faint murmuring came from upstairs. Gregorian chant, a monotonous line without harmony of any sort. Someone was talking softly, as though even here in this inner sanctum he was afraid of being overheard. From time to time the pitch shifted, an antiphonal response in the liturgy before reverting to the original tone. A second voice then. An answer song. Was someone with Little Boy Blue?
He crept softly up the stairs till he could see along the hallway. The door to the room where he had found the blazer and hair products was standing open, daylight shining a clear path on the floor. Dan made his way along, thankful the stripping crew had left the hall carpet intact. Nothing like footsteps to advertise your presence. He paused and waited for the sound to resume. There it was again. He was about to fathom the answer to at least one mystery.
He reached the door and stopped. The sound was less distinct now. He peered inside. The room w
as empty. He looked cautiously around. He could have sworn the voices had come from this room. They resumed suddenly from a baseboard register, the talk carrying from somewhere below.
He crept back down the stairs, scanning for a basement entrance. He found the stairwell near the joint in the L-shaped corridors and descended one cautious step at a time, mindful not to let his tread give him away. There he was, breaking Horror Film Survival Rule Number Three: Never go down to the basement alone.
Someone spoke, paused, spoke again. The response came in a different pitch. All talking suddenly ceased as Dan reached the landing. He braced for an assault. Nothing happened; no one emerged to challenge him.
A soft, childlike laugh came from a door at the far end. As Dan edged his way along he heard a stealthy sound, as though something was being dragged across the floor. The smell of fries hung in the air.
He inched forward and peered through a crack. In the semi-darkness, he could make out a bag set on the floor beside a blazer and cap. A slim young man in black T-shirt, tight jeans, and worn runners sat cross-legged on the floor. Gaetan Bélanger. There was no one else there. Where was Little Boy Blue?
This kid is nowhere, Domingo had said.
Dan watched the boy pick through the bag. His mutterings resumed. He seemed to be talking to his food, speaking in French mostly, but now and then a word or two in English. He pulled out a hamburger, tore it open, and ate ravenously. With his lean build, he no doubt came by his hunger honestly.
Dan had confronted missing people in the flesh many times before. Sometimes he’d been able to talk them into going back to their lives or at least give him a credible explanation why they had disappeared, at least enough that would satisfy the people who hired him, before agreeing to leave them alone and not reveal their whereabouts, if they chose. But he’d never knowingly confronted a murderer before. He’d have to ad lib this one.
He stepped into the room and said, “You shouldn’t be here. You’re trespassing.”
The boy froze, his eyes frantically scanning the hallway behind Dan to see if he’d come alone. Even in the gloom, Dan could see his face was prematurely worn and weighed down with things no kid at that age should have to feel.
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