Owens shook his head. “I doubt very much she’s here. She doesn’t like to get her hands dirty at this level. And it’s much safer if you don’t know her name. It will give her less of a reason to be focused on you.”
“So Webber works for this woman,” said Katie. And, like earlier this morning, there was a look on Katie’s face—a sort of curious fascination—that bothered Izzy. “Who works for you?”
“I have a friend who helps out,” said Owens, and Izzy remembered the phone call he’d made earlier to the mysterious Phil. “But I won’t have others fight my battles. I won’t risk getting anyone killed.”
Izzy absently rubbed her hand, even though the pain from striking Owens had long since vanished. It was still hard to believe what the old man was saying. He was describing something that sounded less and less like a covert government operation, and more like…what? Some kind of ongoing conflict between two people who couldn’t possibly exist? Between people who had apparently been alive for well over a hundred years. And that thought led to a question.
“Can you be killed?” she asked Owens.
“Certainly,” he said. “Anyone can die.”
“And besides the pain thing,” she continued. “Is there anything else I should know? Anything else you can do?”
“Like what? In the past, I would’ve been asked if I could fly, or if I had X-ray vision. I suppose now it would be, can I change shapes? Am I a vampire or werewolf or some such nonsense.” He shook his head. “Don’t you think that if I could ‘do’ anything else, I would’ve done it during the attack? Rather than get mauled?”
Izzy felt her face grow warm with embarrassment. “I’m sorry. It’s just that this is all so hard to believe.” Her mind wandered back to her original question. “You never did say what was so special about Kevin—what makes him so important to you. And this woman?”
“Yes, the question of Kevin,” Owens said, looking uncomfortable. “Well, you know that he’s autistic. But it’s his type of autism, von Kliner’s syndrome, which makes him extraordinary.”
“That’s what I don’t understand,” Izzy said. “It’s autism. A disability. The poor boy can barely function. And yet, you’re telling me people are worth killing to get a hold of him.”
“I know it doesn’t make much sense to you,” Owens said, “But—”
Before he could continue, Officer Al Hamilton popped his head into her office.
“We just got a call from Luce County,” he said. “They brought J.J. Sallinen into Newberry Hospital. Found him at a motel outside of town. He’s been beat up pretty badly.”
Everyone exchanged startled glances. They had forgotten about J.J..
“Is he going to be okay?” Izzy asked.
“That’s the thing,” said Al. “The guy who found him? He thinks somebody tried to kill him.”
Izzy was reaching for the phone before Al’s words had time to fade away.
Chapter 26
Sten Billick paced restlessly across the small, curtained treatment room in the Newberry Hospital ER, waiting for the nurse to bring his discharge papers.
The searing pain in his shoulder had been reduced to a throbbing ache by painkillers. The ER doc had told him he’d been lucky. The bullet had ricocheted off a bone and exited cleanly out the top of his shoulder. Twenty-three stitches to close the entry and exit wounds. That’s all. If his blood pressure hadn't unexpectedly spiked, he would have been discharged last night. But now that it was back under control, he was itching to be released.
He took three steps, spun around, took three more.
Back and forth. Back and forth.
He checked his watch. Rosie was on the way to pick him up. She had spent the evening with him, but he had insisted that she go home to sleep. Luckily, the kids were grown and out of the house. There was no need to call and upset them. He was going to be fine.
Three steps, spin, three more.
Where was the damn nurse?
Anger burned in his gut, an ache no narcotic could touch. He’d been shot by Carlton Manick. Of all people, it had been that idiot who’d tagged him. The most incompetent police officer he’d ever known had gotten the drop on him.
Izzy should’ve called for backup. She should’ve listened to him.
Three steps, spin, three more.
He knew it could’ve been worse. Someone who actually knew how to use a gun could’ve shot him. He could be lying in a refrigerated, stainless steel drawer in the morgue.
Carlton fucking Manick.
His shoulder—the bad one—caught on the room’s white curtain, causing the coasters from which it hung to skitter along their tracks. The steely scrape of metal against metal pulled him out of his brooding. He stopped pacing and took in a lungful of antiseptic air. His stitches twinged in irritation at being stretched.
Where the hell was his nurse?
He yanked the curtain aside and made his way down the hallway to the nurse’s station. As he drew closer to the long desk, he caught a few words from another treatment room that got his attention.
“…Have a seventeen-year-old male. Multiple contusions. Looks like a fractured nose. Jesus…his fingers. Who’d…?”
The voice belonged to his nurse. The rest of his words were drowned out by a cry from the poor kid they were working on.
A curtain three rooms down was drawn aside, and his nurse strode out. The man was tall and heavy, pushing nearly three hundred pounds. He wore wrinkled blue scrubs. A stethoscope hung around his neck.
When he saw Sten, he said, “Sorry, Mr. Billick. I’ll get your paperwork as soon as I can.” To the nurse behind the desk, he said, “Any word from that kid’s parents? We need to treat him now.”
The other nurse, a brunette with short hair and a sharp face, shook her head. “Luce County put in a call to Kinsey PD asking for help. No word yet.”
His nurse shot Sten a questioning look. “Aren’t you Kinsey PD?”
Sten nodded. “Who’s the kid?”
“Hold on.” The man reached over the desk and grabbed a clipboard. He quickly scanned it and looked up at Sten. “Jack Sallinen, Jr. Know him?”
“Yeah, I know him. I doubt you’ll find his dad. Not sure where his mom is.”
“Great,” his nurse said, tossing the clipboard on the desk. “I’ll check with the doc. This kid’s going to need CT Scans, consults for his nose and hand, probably surgery. But right now he needs something for pain.” When he turned to walk away, Sten stopped him.
“Can I talk to him?”
The nurse shrugged. “Be my guest. There’s a guy in there now waiting to take a statement.” Then the nurse hurried around a corner and disappeared. Sten wondered briefly how a man so big could be so light on his feet.
Sten walked into the room. J.J. lay on a large gurney, covered to his waist with a white sheet. An IV had been inserted into the back of his left hand; clear fluids dripped into a little reservoir, then into J.J. Wires attached to his chest led to a machine that beeped with reassuring precision. A clear plastic tube was looped loosely around J.J.’s face, with two small feeders pushing oxygen into his broken nose. His black-rimmed eyes were closed.
Whoever had done a number on him had been thorough.
Standing next to J.J. was a Luce County Sheriff’s patrolman.
Sten stuck out his good hand. “Detective Sten Billick. Kinsey PD.”
The man shook Sten’s hand. “Steve Campbell.” He took in Sten’s sling and bandages. “Rough day?”
Sten gestured to J.J. “Not as bad as the one he’s had.”
“You know him?”
“His dad’s a big-shot dirtbag back in Kinsey. Any chance you could fill me in on what happened?”
Officer Campbell recounted the events at the Hiawatha Trails Motel.
“Three guys,” said Sten when Campbell had finished. “One calling himself Jack Snow and another who gave the owner the creeps.”
Campbell pulled out his notebook. “Any idea who they might be?”
Officer Campbell’s mouth twisted as he slowly closed his notebook. “What’ve you got going on in that town? And what kind of father does that”—he hooked his thumb at the unconscious J.J.—“to his own son?”
Sten shrugged, wincing as a sharp stab of pain cut through his wounded shoulder. “Damn that hurts,” he muttered. “Anyway, I was being charitable when I called Jack Sr., a dirtbag. Douchebag would be more like it. Still, I never thought he’d sink so low as to beat his own son. Obviously the guy’s more disturbed than I’d thought.”
Officer Campbell opened his mouth to say something, but J.J. groaned loudly. Sten turned and found the boy had opened his eyes slightly. J.J. blinked slowly, his mouth working, his cracked lips starting to seep blood.
Stepping over to the gurney, Sten said, “Take it easy, J.J.. Try not to move.”
J.J. blinked again. His eyes opened a little wider. “Where…oh fuck…hurts.”
“You’re at the hospital,” explained Sten. “The nurse went to get you something for the pain.”
J.J.’s face clenched. “Know…you. Cop.”
“That’s right. Detective Billick.” He leaned in closer to J.J.. “Who did this to you? Who hurt you?”
“No,” J.J. panted. “Katie…danger.”
Sten gave J.J. a puzzled frown. Katie Bethel? The last Sten had seen of the girl, she’d been with Izzy, Owens and Gene.
“I think she’s okay. She’s with Chief Morris and—”
J.J. started to shake his head, then cried out in pain. “House,” he said through fresh tears. “Katie’s.” The boy started to tremble. “Going there.”
“What?” said Sten. “No. No, you can’t go there. Not now.”
J.J.’s agitation grew. His eyes were wide and wild. “Not me. They are. They are.” Spittle flew from his lips. “Dad. Webber. Katie’s house.” His eyes found Sten’s. “Stop them. You have to.”
Sten heard a telephone ring shrilly outside the room. He turned to Officer Campbell. “Go get that nurse.” As the man left, he turned back to J.J.. “Calm down, son. Please.” He put a reassuring hand on the boy’s shoulder. When J.J. had stilled some, he asked, “What do I have to stop? What’s going to happen at Katie’s house?”
“They’ll get him,” wheezed J.J.. “I hid him, but they’ll find him.” The bruises around his eyes darkened. “Oh my God. Brittany’s there.”
The male nurse entered the room. He was holding a syringe filled with amber-colored fluid.
“Who will they get? Who’s there?”
“Give me a second, Detective,” said the nurse. He uncapped the syringe, slid the needle into J.J.’s IV port, and pushed on the plunger. The drug rushed into J.J.’s system.
“J.J., who’s at Katie’s?”
With his eyes starting to glaze over, J.J. whispered, “Him. My…brother. Kevin. He’s…he’s…there….” Then J.J. was asleep, blissfully removed from his pain.
Oh shit, thought Sten.
“Excuse me,” interrupted the nurse. “I wanted to tell you. There’s a phone call from your Chief of Police. At the nurse’s desk. She’s looking for this kid. You want to talk to her?”
Sten Billick practically ran from the room.
Chapter 27
The pretty girl hummed, and the colors of her voice fascinated Kevin Sallinen. Tiny, shimmering specks of red and yellow and blue and green flew from her lips. They danced around him like fireflies, swirling and spinning and capering, beckoning to him. He reached out to touch one. It slid effortlessly from his fingers. He tried again, and the bright light eluded him again. He giggled. It was like trying to catch the stars in the night sky.
“What’s so funny?” she asked him.
“Star bite, star right!” Kevin crowed. Then he clapped, a percussive sound that scattered the lights about him.
The pretty girl smiled. His heart sang. She was so nice.
“That’s very good,” she said. “Do you want to hear the whole rhyme?”
He brought his hands together like a thunderclap, sending little fireflies sailing around the room, tiny motes caught in a whirlwind.
Her smile widened. “You do? That’s wonderful.” Then she lowered her voice, and the colors she gave off faded to soft pastels. “Star light, star bright,” she whispered. “The first star I see tonight. I wish I may, I wish I might, have the wish I wish tonight.” She leaned forward and gave him a quick, friendly kiss on the top of his head.
“’Ite,” Kevin tried repeating, his eyes fixed briefly on hers.
She reached out and gently tousled his hair. “Do you have any wishes, little man?”
He did have a wish. His face screwed up in concentration. “P-p-pop t-tart.”
“You want a Pop Tart?” She got up from the couch. “Let me see if I can find one.”
She had made it around the couch and half-way to the kitchen when the front door opened.
A man walked through. He was tall, skinny. He was smiling too, but Kevin didn’t like his smile. It wasn’t like the pretty girl’s.
“That’s what I love about you Midwestern folk,” said the man. His voice was dark, shadowy, and it buzzed like a nest of angry bees. “You never lock your damn doors.”
After a look of surprise, the pretty girl bolted for the kitchen. The man shot his arm out and grabbed her by the hair, yanking her back. When he’d hauled her flailing body next to him, he whipped a snow-covered arm firmly across her throat.
“Look what I got here,” the man said. His voice stung the air with a hundred bee stings. He tightened his grip on her neck, and the pretty girl stopped struggling. “I don’t know who you are, but you need to understand something right now. Do as I say, behave yourself, and things will be just great between us. Maybe we could even be friends. But cause trouble and, well….” Kevin watched as the man let go of her hair and pulled a black, metal thing from his waistband. Gripping the short end, he pushed the long end hard against side of the pretty girl’s head. “Get my drift, missy?”
She nodded, her body trembling, tears running down her cheeks.
“Who else is here?”
“N-n-no one. Oh God, please don’t hurt us.”
The man dug the metal thing harder into her head. “I don’t hurt anyone unless I have to. And I don’t want to have to hurt you.” He pushed his mouth close to the girl’s ear. “So stop begging. It annoys the hell out of me.”
The pretty girl cried harder. “Oh God, I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”
The man eased the gun away from her head. “When I take my arm off your throat, I want you to go over to the couch and sit down next to Kevin. Don’t do anything to piss me off, or I’ll shoot you without a second thought. Are we on the same page here?”
She nodded through her tears.
The man let her go, and she moved to sit next to Kevin. She was shaking so badly he could feel her through the cushions.
Then the man focused his attention on him.
“Hello, my boy. Good to finally meet you.” Over his shoulder, the man called out, “You can come in now.”
When his dad slowly walked through the door, Kevin couldn’t help but smile.
* * *
When Jack walked through the door and saw his son, he couldn’t help but smile. It had only been a day since he’d last seen Kevin—yesterday morning, in fact, before he’d gone to Jimmy Cain’s funeral—but with everything that had happened, it felt like weeks.
Kevin’s smile filled him with a certain happiness he rarely felt. He knew his boy was damaged: his von Kliner’s syndrome was evident in every stray glace, every erratic movement. Because of that, his son would never ascend to the successes Jack had achieved. And yet, he knew that Kevin was special. He’d desperately wanted to believe that, ever since Kevin had been diagno
sed. Webber’s arrival had been like a dream come true. It had shown that Kevin was indeed special.
Jack looked past his son at the girl sitting beside him.
“I know you,” he said. “Bridgette something?”
“Brittany,” the girl answered quickly. “Brittany Parsons.”
Jack nodded. “Right. I like Bridgette better. You can stay right there. Kevin, come here.”
The Parsons girl wrapped her arms protectively around Kevin, pulling him close. Before Jack could tell her to let him go, Webber stepped between them. “No, Jack. I’d rather he stay there. What if Owens and his friends show up? What do you think will happen then? That Morris will read you your rights and ask you to come along quietly? Hell, no. They’re going to come in with guns drawn. I don’t want to risk your boy getting hurt. Better safe than sorry, right?”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” snapped Jack. “No one knows we’re here. And even if someone does find out, we’ll be long gone before anyone could get here. Now I want to see—”
“That’s a bad habit you have there,” Webber said, cutting him off. “Underestimating people. I mean, look what happened when I sent”—he shot a quick look at Bridgette—“my friend to visit Morris. Not only did she survive, they managed to hurt it. Trust me, that’s no small thing. And with Owens in the mix, it’s best to assume they’re right behind you.”
“What is it with you and that guy? I’ve never seen him carrying a gun. He can’t be all that dangerous. Yet you make it sound like he’s some kind of martial arts master.”
“He’s lethal one-on-one. And very resilient. But the thing he’s got going for himself is experience. The man’s been around for a long, long time. He knows his shit, Jack.”
“Then you deal with him. Right now, I want to give my son a hug. I don’t care what you say, he’s not in any danger.” His voice grew hard as he turned toward the couch. “Let him go, Bridgette.”
The girl squeezed Kevin tighter. “I’m not going to let you hurt him.”
“He’s my son. My own flesh and blood. I would never hurt him. Now, take your damn hands off him.”
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