False Friend

by Andrew Grant

  Devereaux rolled farther through the patch of trees, wincing as the Porsche’s wheels sank down into the abrasive, pebbled surface. Then he reached for his phone, cursing himself for not having asked for someone to watch Diane’s house when he’d called Dispatch earlier. But before he could finish dialing he caught sight of a pair of faint, dusty tire tracks. They led up onto the sidewalk at the far end of the lot and disappeared around the side of the building.

  The area behind the school was shaped like a long, wide rectangle with one corner cut off, bordered by more tall, randomly spaced pine trees. It had previously been filled with a jumble of tennis courts, soccer pitches, and a baseball diamond, but these had all been cleared away over the summer in preparation for a new, better-organized set of facilities. It had been leveled so that the kids would still have somewhere to play, and was now covered with a temporary layer of sand and dirt. The space was empty, except for one thing. The white Volvo, which was sitting alone in the dead center, facing the building like the only car at a dilapidated drive-in movie.

  Devereaux could see Daniel McKinzie sitting behind the wheel, which struck him as odd for a moment because he’d forgotten the Volvo was right-hand drive. The boy was holding something. A stopwatch. Devereaux heard a loud crash high up to his right, and almost immediately began to smell smoke. Daniel swapped the watch for a notebook and scribbled rapidly across its center pages. Then he took a pair of binoculars and began to methodically scan the rear of the building, left to right, top to bottom, until he reached the right-hand side of the first floor. Then he spotted Devereaux watching him. He scrabbled for the ignition key. Fired up the engine. Lurched forward. Snaked across to his right, and stopped twenty feet from the front of the Porsche.

  Don’t do it, Devereaux thought. Don’t do it! He could see Daniel’s hands jammed together at the top of the steering wheel. His knuckles were white. His arms were locked out straight. And his eyes were darting from side to side, sizing up the too-narrow gaps between the Porsche, the wall, and the line of trees.

  Devereaux kept his foot on the brake and waited until he saw the tension melt away from Daniel’s arms. Then he shifted into Park, climbed out of the car, and walked slowly toward the Volvo. He kept his arms away from his body, palms down, until he was level with the driver’s door. Then he mimed for Daniel to roll down his window.

  “It’s OK, Daniel.” Devereaux kept his voice quiet and low. “Your mom told me you’d be here. She asked me to bring you home. And she explained how none of this is your fault. It was the system. It screwed you. Giving places at the good science schools to those unworthy kids, but not you? Of course that made you mad. I totally get it. So there’s no need to worry. I can help you. I just need you to switch off your engine and—”

  The Volvo leapt forward and then peeled away into a wide U-turn, accelerating unsteadily as Daniel worked his way through the gears. Devereaux shook his head and climbed back into the Porsche, easily closing the gap but making no attempt to overtake the other car. There was no point. Daniel had nowhere to go. Devereaux just had to keep him penned in until the squad cars arrived. Then they could throw a butterfly net over the boy and hand him over to the shrinks at the UAB Hospital.

  Daniel turned hard left, trying to loop around the Porsche and race back to the gap at the side of the school building. Devereaux moved across, blocking his path. Daniel kept his wheel on full lock, hoping to cut across in front and slip away down the other side but Devereaux steered right, coming up alongside him. The cars were parallel now, two feet apart, driver to driver. Devereaux glanced across at the Volvo. Daniel’s body was rigid with tension. His eyes were brimming with anger. He sneered, then reached his left hand down between the front seats. He pulled something out of the gap. A gun. He moved his arm across his body, trying to aim the muzzle out of the open window.

  Devereaux tapped the brake pedal and fell back, out of the line of fire. Daniel dropped down to second, hit the gas, and surged forward toward a gap he’d spotted between two trees on the border with Wildoak Drive. He snatched third, squeezing another couple of miles per hour out of the ancient, whining engine. He adjusted his steering slightly. Pressed even harder on the gas. And slammed into the steering wheel as the Volvo snagged on the curbstone at the edge of the school yard. The solid granite block ripped the metal lip from beneath the slender chrome fender and the car’s elegant curved nose buried itself deep into the dusty red soil.

  Devereaux kept his distance and watched Daniel wrestle with the Volvo’s stalled engine. The boy tried over and over to get it going, twisting the key and pumping the gas as the carburetor flooded and the starter motor shrieked and stuttered in vain. Finally Daniel pounded on the steering wheel in frustration, then tried to open the door. It was jammed. The impact must have distorted the car’s bodywork. Daniel tugged on the handle, over and over, but it wouldn’t budge. He leaned across and tried the passenger door. It was stuck, too. Devereaux could see Daniel’s movements growing increasingly panicked. Finally the boy twisted around and managed to squeeze out through the open window, landing in the dirt on his back but scrambling quickly upright.

  “Are you OK, Daniel?” Devereaux stepped out of the Porsche, his gun concealed behind him. “Are you hurt?”

  Daniel was reeling a little, clutching his bruised ribs with his right hand and clinging to his gun with his left.

  “How’s this for an idea?” Devereaux took a cautious step forward. “Let’s get you to the hospital. Have a doctor check you out. Make sure you didn’t take a bang to the head. Your mom told me you’re going to be America’s top scientist one day. That’s a big deal. We can’t take chances with—”

  “Don’t listen to her.” Daniel stepped away from the car. “She’s a moron. She should have said, the world’s greatest physicist. It’s my destiny to be—”

  A second explosion rocked the school. Devereaux glanced over his shoulder and registered the twin columns of smoke rising from two of the glass pyramids that had collapsed, and the tongues of angry red flame licking around the jagged remnants of their metal frames. And when he looked back he saw Daniel on the far side of the Volvo, running fast.

  “Daniel, stop!” Devereaux sprinted after the boy. “Think about this. The entire Birmingham Police Department’s out looking for you. If another officer sees you, he’ll shoot. You can’t be any kind of scientist if you’re dead.”

  Daniel cleared the trees and continued across Wildoak Drive, and Devereaux lost more ground when a driver in a shiny yellow Hummer panicked at the sight of his gun and stopped dead, right in his way. By the time he shimmied around the back of the SUV he was only just in time to catch sight of Daniel dodging down the driveway between two green-painted wood and brick houses near the corner of Briar Meadow Road.

  “You’re supposed to be a smart kid.” Devereaux paused at the mouth of the driveway that Daniel had taken. “So stop this. Come out. What you’re doing is the opposite of smart. It’s going to get you killed.”

  Daniel didn’t respond so Devereaux moved forward along the broad slabs of concrete, turning sideways to squeeze between a white minivan and the wall of the right-hand house. He emerged and continued toward the flat, grass-filled yard at the back of the properties. The fence was high—too high for a teenager with sore ribs to climb?—but there were plenty of things to hide behind. A shiny steel gas grill. A kids’ trampoline. A stack of garden furniture. A pile of—

  Devereaux heard a dried-up leaf crunch behind him. He spun around. Daniel was running toward him from the other side of the minivan, left arm outstretched, gun in hand. Devereaux dived to his right. Rolled. Came back up in a crouch, his own gun raised. He lined up on the center of Daniel’s chest. Started to squeeze the trigger.

  Then relaxed.

  Daniel was holding a Colt 1911. A solid weapon. A heavy one. Most adults find it hard to keep a gun like that steady, even with two hands. But this kid was brandishing it effortlessly with just his left. Like it was a toy. A toy…

>   Devereaux slowly got to his feet. “Nice try, Daniel. But I know that’s not a real gun. Put it down. Come with me. We’ll go see your mom.”

  “All right.” Daniel lowered his arm and moved closer to Devereaux. “If we have to. But there’s something I want to show you, first.” He opened his right hand and held up an engraved silver cigarette lighter. “It was my grandfather’s. It’s old. But believe me, it still works.” Then he snapped his left arm up and pulled the water pistol’s trigger, drenching the front of Devereaux’s shirt with gasoline.

  Chapter Seventy-four

  Wednesday. Evening.

  Diane McKinzie felt sick. Sicker than she’d ever felt before. But not because of the booze. Or the salt solution she’d made herself drink. Or whatever Daniel had slipped into her food to close her down early for the night. It was because of eight words.

  “You can give your statement in the morning.”

  That was the last thing the policewoman had said. She’d called a guy to come and board up the front door, when it became apparent that Diane was in no state to handle that herself. She’d sat with Diane until the work was done. Reassured her that Daniel wasn’t seriously hurt, as soon as the information came over the air. Promised to let Diane know the second the doctors cleared Daniel for visiting. Got her settled on the couch. Then dropped her bombshell, and left.

  She could give her statement. About Daniel. About how he was her son, and yet she hadn’t known what he’d been doing. Not known. Not had proof. The Dispatch reports he’d written didn’t mean anything. Anyone could see that. They weren’t serious! They were just childish make-believe. Figments of his imagination. They had to be…

  The policewoman had been helpful. She’d been polite. But if it had been tattooed across her forehead in capital letters, her opinion wouldn’t have been any clearer. She didn’t believe a word Diane had said. And there was the problem. If Diane couldn’t convince someone in the heat of the moment, in the midst of her wrecked home, with tears in her eyes and streaks of vomit still on her chin, how could she convince anyone else with just her words?

  And how could she continue to convince herself?

  Chapter Seventy-five

  Wednesday. Late evening.

  The twisted old trees danced wildly with the shadows thrown by Devereaux’s headlights as he guided the Porsche along the rough, root-lined track through the forest. He stopped in his usual spot and covered the final few yards to the cabin on foot, and only pulled out his flashlight when he reached the pitted wooden door.

  The cabin had once belonged to Devereaux’s great-grandfather—or so he’d believed when he bought it, fifteen years previously, in an attempt to reconnect with his heritage. Following his last case, he knew he had no family ties to the place at all. The half-derelict structure couldn’t connect him with previous generations any more than it could keep out the rain. Its decaying wooden frame couldn’t provide him with the stability he’d thought his ancestors would bring. But that was OK. After everything he’d learned about his family he didn’t want any links with them, anyway. All he wanted was a place to think, where he wouldn’t be disturbed. And the little cabin was still the best place for doing that.

  Devereaux took a can of Avondale Battlefield IPA—his favorite beer—from the dwindling stack of six-packs to the side of the iron furnace that dominated the far end of the small rectangular room, then shoved the battered brown leather couch forward until it was bathed in the moonlight that was flooding in through the largest of the holes in the roof.

  Devereaux slipped out of the BPD windbreaker he’d put on after the crime scene guys had taken his shirt, massaged the bruised knuckles of his left hand, and lay back on the couch. He looked up at the stars, twinkling in the inky sky above. Were they laughing at him? Could they see the irony? Lieutenant Hale had met him at headquarters after he was done with his paperwork, and said she was going to put him up for a commendation. For arresting Daniel McKinzie, and putting a stop to his arson spree.

  What a bunch of bullshit. First, there was more chance of a turkey voting for Thanksgiving than Captain Emrich approving any kind of an award for him. And second, Hale and Devereaux both knew the true cause of her enthusiasm. The fact that Devereaux hadn’t shot the kid, despite almost getting lit on fire. Hale saw that as progress. Devereaux saw it as fraud. The real reason he hadn’t pulled the trigger wasn’t that he’d grown as a person since the last incident. It was that he was afraid of Alexandra’s reaction. Eight years ago, in the aftermath of similar circumstances, she’d walked away from him because he’d shot a kid the same kind of age. In that back yard near Putman school, Devereaux had been terrified of the same thing happening again. Concern for Daniel McKinzie’s miserable life hadn’t come close to entering the equation.

  The wind picked up a little, stirring around some of the tinier fragments of wood and broken shingles that lay strewn across the floor. It also chased away a thin layer of cloud from the sky, making the moon seem even brighter. Like a searchlight, Devereaux thought, illuminating another truth he’d been trying to hide from. His reaction to the blackmail material that had been left at Alexandra’s. He’d convinced himself that shutting down whoever had sent it should be his first priority. But why? Lieutenant Hale already knew the truth about his family, so his job wasn’t threatened. The press might make a stink, but he didn’t care about public opinion. No. Alexandra’s attitude was the key. And she’d already looked at the pictures. He couldn’t make her un-see them. She must have a million questions. Questions only he could answer. Questions he was trying to avoid, by trying to find the blackmailer first. Because once again, he was scared of her response.

  The wind picked up further and started to move some of the larger chunks of debris from the damaged roof. That was the physical fallout from the first revelation about his father, Devereaux thought. He hadn’t been able to control where those pieces fell, when the beam broke after he’d slung a noose around it in the midst of his previous case. He’d just had to clean them up, as well as he could. And now he saw it was the same with this new information. He swung his feet onto the floor. It was time to forget about the blackmailer. Stopping him wasn’t important. Facing Alexandra was. And then fixing whatever damage that might cause.

  Chapter Seventy-six

  Wednesday. Late evening.

  Alexandra read the contents of the file carefully, then pushed it back across the kitchen table. “You stole this?”

  “Borrowed it without permission.” Devereaux slipped the file into his briefcase. “I returned the original. This is a copy.”

  “And you did it because of a dream?”

  “In a way. I kept dreaming about my father’s house being demolished after he was shot. I couldn’t understand why that had to happen if he was a cop. A hero. I couldn’t find anything online to explain it, so I had to get my hands on his file.”

  “How long have you known?” Alexandra stood and moved to the window, keeping her back to Devereaux.

  “Three months, give or take.” Devereaux shifted in his seat. “Remember Ethan Crane, the missing orphan? It came up in connection with that investigation. I thought there must be a mistake, at first. A cover-up of some kind, or a conspiracy. So I talked to the guy who’d wound up partnering the detective on my father’s case. He explained everything. How they fixed things to make it look like I was the son of a cop, not a murderer. To take the stink off me. Give me a shot at a future. And it wasn’t just me they helped. There were others. Innocent kids who wouldn’t have stood a chance otherwise.”

  “You make it sound so innocuous.”

  “Heroic is what I was shooting for.”

  “Anyway, you should have told me. Given me all the facts before burrowing your way back into my life. And into Nicole’s.”

  “Would you have made a different decision, then?”

  “I don’t know.” Alexandra turned to face him. “Maybe.”

  “Then I’m glad I didn’t tell you. Because, listen. I was s
hocked, too, when I first found out. But what I realized is, it doesn’t matter. My father was a monster. I’m not. Look at it this way. Is Nicole destined to become a lawyer, just because you’re one? Of course not. We’re not defined by the genes we inherit. Our destinies aren’t set in stone. We’re all responsible for our own actions.”

  “Do you really believe that?”

  “I do.”

  “Then I don’t know if that makes it better or worse.” Alexandra left the room, then returned carrying the second white envelope that had been delivered to her door. “Take this.” She handed it to Devereaux. “And go. Read what’s inside. I need more time to think. I still haven’t decided what to do about it.”

  Chapter Seventy-seven

  Wednesday. Late evening.

  The city looked clean from the giant window in Devereaux’s living room at the City Federal. The expanse of sparkling lights made it seem almost shiny. And best of all, it was distant. Separate. Contained on the far side of the glass like an exhibit at a museum. Devereaux could shut it all out whenever he felt the need to isolate himself.

  The envelope was different. It was the opposite, sitting on his coffee table like a bulging intruder, demanding attention. Just like the file about his father had done when Devereaux brought it back from the police archive three months earlier. And it was just as unwelcome. Devereaux picked it up and tipped out the contents, dreading the prospect of another stack of sickening images. But there were no photographs on the pages that spilled out. Just words and numbers. Columns and columns of numbers. And together, they formed a picture far more damning than anything Devereaux had seen in the previous package Alexandra had passed to him.