This is not how I survived on the streets for two years.
Miguel was disgusted with himself.
And he was scared out of his mind.
LARRY TAPPED A beat on the steering wheel with his thumb while, on the radio, Guns N’ Roses welcomed him “to the jungle.” He’d punched the kid perfectly, hitting him hard enough to knock him cold but without doing much actual damage. For example, the boy was still alive. Also, he was still pretty. Larry smiled.
He liked the boy’s face. He had pouty little lips. Larry was glad he hadn’t punched the kid in the mouth, busted those lips. He thought about the way he’d left Richard Meacham’s face a little while ago and smiled. His cell phone rang. He looked at the caller ID.
“Yeah, boss?” he said.
“Where are you?” David Rosetti asked, without greeting.
“On my way out of town for the weekend. I cleared that with you, remember?”
“Yeah, well, I might have a problem.”
“What kind of problem?”
“I can’t find my wallet.”
Jesus, this guy needs a babysitter.
Larry sighed quietly and said, “Do you have any idea where you left it?”
“I’m not a child, Larry. I think the boy stole it. The boy from last night.”
Larry looked over at the backpack on the passenger seat.
“If he did,” David said, “you realize what that means, right? It means he’s got evidence that he was with me.”
“I wouldn’t worry about the boy, David.”
“Well, I am worrying. Because he’s on a bus to Chicago with my wallet. And he may still even have that metal pipe he hit me with, which could have my blood on it. You understand? My DNA. If he decides to talk to the authorities about me, he has my wallet and my blood, and I’ve got a dent in my head and scratches on my face. I think someone could believe the kid’s story. Shit, this isn’t good. My father will kill me.” He paused. “And he’ll kill you, too, Larry. You can count on that.”
Keeping one hand on the wheel, Larry zipped open the backpack and fished around, pushing aside the envelope fat with money and the kid’s rusty metal pipe with David’s dried blood on it.
“Larry, you do know how my father would react to this, right? I’m serious. He’d kill us. Well, I know for certain he’d kill you. And he might even kill me. This is bad. What do we do?”
Larry dug around the bag some more until he felt leather. He pulled out a wallet.
“Calm down, David, okay? Let me check my car. Maybe the kid dropped it. Maybe he took the money and ditched your wallet. Give me a second.”
Larry dropped the wallet back into the bag, then tapped along with a Springsteen song for a few beats. A moment later, he said, “Good news, boss, got your wallet right here. I can bring it back to you on Monday morning. You okay with that? You don’t need me to turn around, do you? ’Cause I’m a few hours away.”
Relief flowed down the phone line. “Thank God. No, hang onto it for me. Monday’s fine.”
“Will do.”
“And Larry?”
“Yeah?”
“When you get back, I think we need to go out again. You know…out? I didn’t really get a chance to…I didn’t have time…I just really need to go out, okay? If I don’t…I just don’t know what I’ll do.”
“Yeah, sure, we’ll go out, David. Monday night.”
“Good. Okay…good.”
Larry hung up. Three months was a long time for David, almost an eternity. Every time the end of the third month neared, he started to go a little nutty, getting moody, depressed, anxious, until they trawled their favorite spots and found a little playmate for David. But while three months was a long time to David, it was okay for Larry. He could go longer, maybe a lot longer, but he didn’t have to…because he knew David couldn’t. And after David was finished with each new boy, after he sent him off with Larry with twenty thousand bucks in his little hands, it was Larry’s turn.
The situation really couldn’t have been better for him. As long as he was willing to take David’s seconds—and what did Larry care who went first?—he had a fresh supply of playthings every three months. Plus, when he was done and the body was disposed of, he was twenty thousand dollars richer. That’s eighty grand a year that no one knew about. He sent some to his father, but the rest was all his.
He didn’t bring all the kids to his lake house in New Hampshire. That was his private retreat, far from Philadelphia, far from the Rosetti family, far from where anyone knew him. David didn’t even know about the house, which actually belonged to Larry’s father, who wouldn’t allow Larry to sell it despite the fact that the old man was never again going to step foot outside his nursing home. No, Larry brought only the special boys to the lake house, the prettiest ones. Maybe one kid a year made it up there, where Larry could spend a few days really taking his pleasure. The other ones were used in the back of his car in a dark parking garage before he discarded them in one of his dumping grounds.
Miguel was a special one. He was beautiful. And he was tough. Larry would take his time with Miguel. The kid would resist at first; they all did, and that made it more fun. Miguel would probably resist more than the others. He had that kind of spirit. Larry was expecting that. Looking forward to it, actually. But once the boy was broken, once all hope was gone and he knew he had no choice but to give in, and give in willingly, the real fun would begin.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
“ARE YOU MAKING all this up?” Antonio asked.
“I wish I was,” Boone said.
The cabbie was silent a moment, then said, “Sounds either made-up or crazy.”
“It’s definitely not made-up. Could be a little crazy, I guess.”
“Ghosts in your computer? In your DVD player? Throwing stuff at you?”
“Yeah, I know, it sounds weird. There were other witnesses, though,” Boone lied.
He probably shouldn’t have said anything. Antonio hadn’t tried to throw him out of his cab again, so Boone should have left well enough alone. But they were making conversation. After a few moments of silence Antonio said, “I’m pulling into this rest stop up here. Gotta take a leak. How about you?”
Boone shook his head. “No, I’m all right.”
“Okay. I won’t be long.”
The truth was, Boone did have to urinate, but the thought of walking across even the shortest expanse of open parking lot to reach the restroom was intolerable to him. The wide-open parking lot, no walls to protect him, walking all that way through that open air…he just couldn’t do it. He’d wait until he got where he was going and find a way then.
The taxi slowed to a stop. Antonio said, “Be back in a minute. You sure you don’t want to stretch your legs?”
“I’m good. Thanks.”
Boone heard the driver’s door open. He waited for it to close. Why was it taking so long to close again? The door was open and the outside was getting in. When the door was closed he was safe in here, in the cab—not as safe as in his apartment, but safer than outside. Now the door was open and the outside was getting inside, inside with him. Boone shoved his fists against his eyes. He was dimly aware that he’d started making a mewling sound. His breath was getting short. He punched the car seat beside him with both hands. Suddenly, Boone’s door flew open and he was grabbed roughly around his waist.
“Sorry, man,” Antonio said as he hauled Boone from his seat. The action was so sudden and unexpected that, before Boone had time to resist, he found himself sitting on hard pavement. Something landed in his lap. The gym bag with his change of clothes in it. A car door slammed, then another.
No…
Boone scrambled to his feet.
“Sorry, buddy,” Antonio said through his open car window. “It’s just too much for me. You freaking out all the time, all this talk about ghosts. It’s no good for me.”
Then it hit Boone. He was standing in the open. He had no idea where he was, how far away the nearest building
was. He’d had trouble breathing seconds before. Now, that task seemed physically impossible. His heart began to jackhammer.
“Seriously,” the cabbie said, “I hate to do this, but you seem a bit crazy, you know? And I got kids at home. Can’t afford to be strangled by an escaped lunatic or something, you know?”
Boone tried to speak but couldn’t. He had no breath for speech. He couldn’t control his tongue anyway. He could see the taxi from the corner of his eye and reached a hand toward it. He took a step forward and heard the cab move a few feet away, then stop again.
“Listen up now,” Antonio said. “You’re at a rest stop just across the New Hampshire border, okay? If you turn just a bit to your right and start walking, in fifty yards or so you’ll come to the building, okay? They got restaurants, bathrooms, whatever you need. You got a cell phone, right? Well, call whoever you need to call. You’ll be all right, you know? You’ll be okay.”
Boone wheezed, “No…” He dropped to his wounded, tender knees on the hard pavement. He barely noticed the pain. He was more worried about his inability to breathe and his sudden, total blindness.
“I gotta go, man. I really hate to do this to you, but I gotta go. I just can’t deal with it any more, okay?” A pause, then, “I gotta go.”
Boone fell onto his side and waited to die.
AFTER WHAT COULD have been hours, or only minutes, Boone opened his eyes. He felt terribly weak but he was still alive. And he could see again—though just a little, as always. He’d survived another panic attack. But he was still out in the open, and that thought brought with it the familiar fluttering, the sickening sensation of another impending attack. He fought to slow his heart, control his breath. After a moment, he was calmer. He could still see from the corner of his eye.
He tried to orient himself. Where had the cabbie said to go? He thought it was off to his right. He grabbed his gym bag from the ground and staggered to his feet. He needed to get out of this wide-open place. He needed to get inside.
God, why had he left his apartment?
He took a breath and began walking, keeping his head cocked to the side to see better. A large shape loomed in the near distance. Must have been the rest-stop building. It was dark now but the parking lot was lighted and he could make out cars near the building. He walked as quickly as he could toward it—apparently, Antonio had dumped him in a remote corner of the lot—and as he walked the seconds passed like hours. In two agonizing minutes, he’d reached the building. He was inside again. He nearly cried with relief. He took several deep breaths, filling his lungs with sweet, recycled, inside air. He made his way through the building to a booth that probably belonged to the restaurant responsible for the fast-food smell that was thick in the air. He sat down and leaned his head back against the wall.
He was proud of himself. It had been hard, damned hard, but he made it across an open parking lot. Earlier today, he hadn’t been able to cross a street, hadn’t even been able to make it from Kenny’s door to the cab ten feet away without Kenny’s help, yet he’d just walked all the way across a parking lot by himself. Without passing out or even going blind. That was big. That was a huge step for him. He smiled.
“What does that guy have to smile about?” he heard someone say as two sets of footsteps passed him. The words had been spoken quietly. The speaker probably thought he wouldn’t be overheard, but since his accident Boone’s hearing was quite acute.
Hell, the guy’s right. Why am I smiling? I don’t know where I am, where to go, or how I’m going to get there.
Besides, he was already feeling too exposed. He went to find a seat in a tight corner somewhere. On the way, he stopped smiling.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
ALICE HAD BEEN on the road for over four hours. New York was far behind her and Massachusetts would be in her rearview mirror in just a few minutes. She’d driven without a clue where she was going, other than that her general destination was New Hampshire. She’d hoped for a glimpse of the blond boy in one of the other cars on the road along the way, maybe waving for her to follow, to take a certain exit, but the last time she’d seen him was in the back of a cab next to Central Park in New York. She hoped she hadn’t misread his signals and he was actually on his way south to Atlantic City while she’d driven almost three hundred miles north.
With no idea where to go next, Alice decided to pull into the first rest stop over the border and hope for some epiphany. Maybe the boy would show up. Better yet, maybe he’d be standing at a wall map, pointing to her ultimate destination. It wasn’t much of a plan, but nothing else came to mind. Besides, she was starving. She’d gone through a McDonald’s drive-through a couple of hours ago, but all she’d ordered was a bottle of water and an apple pie. She could use some real food—or at least as close as she could find in a highway rest stop.
A big sign by the road welcomed her to New Hampshire.
“Well, kiddo,” she said, “I’m here.”
A rest stop appeared in mere seconds and she pulled in. Though Alice didn’t consider herself timid or paranoid, rest stops made her a little nervous. She’d read of too many people disappearing from rest stops just like this one—small children, teenagers, single women. She pulled into a parking spot right below a lamppost, locked the BMW behind her with the press of a button on the remote on her keychain, and walked into the rest-stop building. There were plenty of people around, which made her feel a bit better.
“Well, let’s see what’s on the menu,” she said aloud.
“Excuse me?” someone said.
Alice turned to a short, squat woman standing beside her. She was holding hands with a pair of children, maybe fraternal twins, who naturally were shorter than she was but just as squat. Dressed all in red, they looked like fire hydrants.
“Sorry,” Alice said, “I wasn’t talking to you.”
“Who were you talking to?”
“Myself. I do that sometimes. Sorry.”
The woman frowned and Alice left her behind as she walked toward the food-service area. She had a few choices—McDonald’s, pizza, or a sandwich. She wasn’t in the mood for any of it. As she considered her options, she kept one eye open for a little blond boy.
The smell of fresh coffee found her nose and she turned and saw a little stand-alone coffee counter off in the corner. It had a glass display case with food inside. Maybe they’d have bagels. That sounded good right now. Coffee and a bagel with cream cheese. She walked toward the coffee place. As she neared it, she spotted bagels behind the glass.
“Bingo,” she said. “Just what I need right now.”
She ordered her food and slid down to the counter. There were only four stools and the ones on either end were occupied by men. That left the two vacant center seats. She’d have to sit beside one of the men. The one on the left was overweight, which would have made sitting so close to him awkward for both of them. Plus, he was sporting a Grand Canyon of a plumber’s crack above his low-hanging blue jeans. She didn’t want to sit next to him. The guy on the other end of the counter, in the seat beside the wall, looked okay. In fact, he was quite handsome, though that didn’t really matter to Alice, of course. What mattered was that she wouldn’t feel uncomfortable sitting beside him.
She put her food on the counter and sat on the stool.
“Okay if I sit here?” she asked.
He didn’t respond. Maybe he hadn’t heard her.
“Do you mind if I sit here?”
“No. No problem.” He didn’t turn his head to look at her.
His voice sounded…off. It was rough. There was a hitch in it or something. She looked over. He was definitely a good-looking man, but something didn’t seem right. He was sweating quite a bit. The rest stop was well air-conditioned, so his perspiring seemed disproportionate to the temperature. And his breathing was wrong, too shallow and rapid.
“I hope you don’t mind me asking, but are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” he said, again without turning to face her. �
�Thanks.”
“Okay.”
Alice started in on her bagel, which wasn’t as fresh as it she would have liked. Probably from first thing this morning, she thought. The coffee was good, though. Beside her, the man’s breathing, which had already been rapid, began to accelerate. She looked over. He had his head down and his eyes squeezed shut. Sweat ran in rivulets down his cheeks and dropped onto the Formica. He was wincing in what looked like genuine pain.
“Oh, no,” he said under his breath, “not again.”
He jammed the heels of his palms against his eyes. A soft moan escaped his lips. He was obviously having an attack of some kind. Alice didn’t know what to do.
“Hey,” she said, “are you okay? Is there some way I can help?”
He shook his head and moaned again.
“I can’t just sit here and watch this,” she said. “Please, tell me what to do.”
He turned his head to face her. Now she saw the unnaturally smooth, pink skin, the burn scars that deformed the right half of his otherwise handsome face.
“I’m…agoraphobic,” he said. “That means…I—”
“I know what it means,” Alice said. “And you’re having a panic attack. I can see that now. How can I help?”
“Nothing…“ He wrapped his arms around himself in a tight squeeze and grimaced. “You should…find somewhere else…to sit. Ah, damn it.”
Alice didn’t know what to do, but she knew she wasn’t going to walk away from this man at this moment. Without thinking, she reached out and took his face in her hands. He recoiled a little at her touch but didn’t push her away. His left cheek was chiseled and well-formed and made rough to the touch by a dashing two-day growth. His right cheek was hard and smooth and felt almost like plastic under her fingers.
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