The problem was that she would never divorce Daniel. It simply wasn’t in her to do so. In her mind, if you got married, you stayed married. If there were problems, you worked together to fix them. That was the way it was done. First, of course, she and Daniel would have to acknowledge that they had some issues; second, they’d have to begin working to fix them. And that was the biggest problem of all, in her mind. She didn’t think Daniel would agree that they had any problems, nor would she find him a willing participant in finding solutions. He would deny, justify, try to recharacterize, and in the end she would give up trying to change things and they would just go on doing what they’d been doing, pretending that things were like they once had been.
“Well, now I’m sad,” she said aloud.
She thought about the first time she and Daniel had kissed. He’d always seemed so confident, since the moment she met him, surrounded by female friends who wanted to be something more, that she was surprised when, after two dates, he still hadn’t kissed her. At the end of their third time out, as they said good night beside his car, she took his face in her hands, stared into his striking, deep-green eyes, and—
“Daniel’s eyes are brown,” she said, “not green.”
She shook her head as if to clear it.
Up ahead, one of the Audi’s taillights winked out. Alice frowned. Strange, but it would make it easier for her to follow it now, in case she momentarily lost sight of it. There weren’t many cars around with a broken right taillight.
“Did you do that to help me, kid?” she asked the blond boy. “Thanks.”
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
THEY WERE GETTING close. In a few minutes, they’d be at Larry’s lake house. Just Miguel and him, deep in the woods, on a quiet lake, with no neighbors around. The closest house to the left of Larry’s was vacant and up for sale—at least it had been the last time Larry had been to the lake, and the housing market hadn’t gotten any better since then. The house to Larry’s right, owned by the Greenlands, a retired couple, would be just as empty. Larry knew this because Trudy had called a few months back to ask him to look in on their place whenever he got up to the lake, because Art had had triple-bypass surgery and wouldn’t be hiking or rowing a boat or doing much of anything away from the doctors at Massachusetts General Hospital, at least not any time soon. So Larry and Miguel would have all weekend without pesky neighbors around, all weekend to get to know each other better, until Larry left first thing Monday morning to head back down to Philly in time to take David out on what his pathetic boss sometimes called his “date night.” The drive back would be pleasant, though. He wouldn’t have Miguel with him, of course—Miguel would be in the lake—but he’d have the memories they’d make together this weekend to keep him company. He smiled at the thought.
His eyes drifted to the bag of money on the passenger seat. Twenty thousand bucks. He’d put half away and send half to his father’s retirement home, pay a few more months in advance. He thought about David’s wallet in the bag. That clever, sneaky, pretty little Miguel. David was right. If the boy had actually gotten away with the wallet, that could have been very bad. If the boy went to authorities with his story, and the lead pipe with David’s blood on it, along with David’s wallet, David could have been in big trouble. And Larry, too. They both would have been in trouble with the law, but Larry would have been in far, far deeper shit with David’s father. It was entirely possible, if not absolutely probable, that the old man would have had a couple of Larry’s buddies take him out to shoot pool, but end up shooting him instead. Wouldn’t it have been ironic if, by coincidence, they dumped his body in the same place he had dumped a couple of dozen little boys’ bodies over the years?
With eerie timing, a police siren screamed out from behind. Larry cut his eyes to his rearview mirror and saw the flashing lights.
“Goddamn it,” he said. Did Meacham, the idiot Larry left bloody in a rest stop a while ago, have more balls and stupidity than Larry gave him credit for? If so, this could get ugly. Hopefully it was something relatively routine.
He turned off the radio, pulled over to the shoulder, and stopped the car. He shoved Miguel’s backpack to the floor on the passenger side, then slipped his hand under his seat, thumbed the safety off his .45, and turned around to face the back of the car. Loud enough to be heard by the kid in the trunk, but not loud enough to be heard by the state trooper who was still sitting in his car, probably running the Audi’s tags, Larry said, “I know you can hear me, Miguel. I swear to God, if you make a sound, I will kill this cop. I’ll shoot him in the face, then I’ll pop the trunk and shoot you in the face, too. Or maybe I’ll just blow your knees to pieces, then take you up to my house anyway and torture you until you can’t even scream anymore. If you don’t want that, if you don’t want to see me kill this cop, and then torture the shit out of you, you’ll keep your mouth shut.”
Larry looked back at the cop, who was still in his car. Larry wasn’t worried about the cop running his plates. His driving record was clean. He was very worried, however, about the twenty grand in a bag on the floor and the bound and gagged runaway stuffed in his trunk. The cop opened his door and stepped out. Larry turned around and put both hands on the wheel. He looked up into the rearview mirror. The cop was standing at the back of the car now, looking down at the rear of the vehicle. Larry dropped his right hand from the wheel and let it hang between his knees, a foot from his gun. If Miguel made a sound now, Larry would yank the gun from under his seat, fling the door open, and unload on the trooper. He waited for a muffled thump or cry from the trunk. The fingers on his right hand twitched. The trooper squatted down behind the car. Larry took his left hand from the wheel and put it on the door handle. He breathed slowly, evenly, and waited. If the trooper was talking into a radio when he stood, Larry was going to move. He’d throw open the door and start firing.
The trooper stood. One hand rested on the grip of his gun, the other rested on his belt, held by a hooked thumb. His body language convinced Larry to return both hands to the steering wheel. Meacham may not have been so dumb after all—smart enough, it seemed, to know that Larry would have made good on his threat and come to his house in New Jersey late one night.
As the trooper approached the car, Larry slid his window down.
“Evening,” Larry said.
“Sir,” the trooper said. His nametag read “Barnes.” “Driver’s license and registration, please.”
Larry reached over, popped the glove box, and slipped his registration from a plastic folder. He handed it to Trooper Barnes, then reached into his back pocket for his wallet, removed his license, and handed that over, too. Barnes kept his hand on his gun.
Larry was tempted to ask why he’d been pulled over, but he knew that people got into trouble blabbering nervously to cops. Always smarter to keep your mouth shut as much as possible. He hoped Miguel felt that way, too. While Barnes looked at his documents, Larry calculated how fast he could draw his .45 from under his seat.
After a moment, Barnes said, “Do you know why I pulled you over, Mr. Catrell?”
Larry shook his head. “You probably hear this a lot, but I really don’t know. I don’t think I was speeding.”
“No, sir, your right rear taillight is out.”
“I had no idea.” His surprise was genuine. Miguel, you clever little shit.
MIGUEL DIDN’T KNOW what to do. He had no doubt that Larry would do as he threatened; if he got the chance, he’d kill the cop, then hurt Miguel badly before killing him, too. But maybe he wouldn’t get the chance. Maybe if Miguel called out, the cop would read the situation quickly and be alert enough to draw his gun before Larry drew his. But what if the cop wasn’t quick enough? Then he’d die and Miguel wouldn’t be far behind. And though Miguel had no illusions that Larry had anything fun planned for him, he certainly didn’t want to make Larry mad. As Miguel had learned in his life—both before he left home and later on the streets—things could always get worse. And getting Larry mad
could potentially make things a lot worse.
What do I do?
THE TROOPER HANDED a citation through the window to Larry. As he did, his eyes roamed the interior of the car. Larry watched them and knew when they had landed on the backpack. Larry knew that there was nothing inherently suspicious about a backpack in a car. And he’d given the trooper no reason to be suspicious of him. The trooper certainly didn’t have justification to search the vehicle, even if the probable cause standard in traffic stops seemed to Larry to be grossly cop-friendly. Still, though, Trooper Barnes might be bored tonight, might be in the mood to use his badge to bully some poor schmuck on the highway, give him a figurative wedgie—who knew, maybe he’d had a bad burrito for dinner, or his wife wasn’t putting out lately. Larry was tense, ready to draw and fire if need be, but appeared outwardly relaxed. He tried to strike a balance—he wanted to appear slightly frustrated at having received a ticket for a busted taillight, yet appropriately submissive to Barnes’s authority. All the while, though, he was ready to kill.
Without wanting to seem like he wanted Barnes to move along, he said, “I’ll find an auto parts store first thing in the morning and get this taken care of.”
Barnes looked into his eyes for a moment—a moment that stretched too long for Larry as he half expected Miguel to start kicking and moaning in the trunk—before nodding.
“Drive carefully tonight, sir,” the trooper said.
“Will do,” Larry said as he raised his window.
He figured Barnes would wait until Larry pulled away off the shoulder before leaving, so Larry slipped the registration back into its little folder, replaced the folder in the glove box, and casually pulled back onto the highway. Half a mile later he saw a light-blue BMW on the side of the highway with its trunk open. A skinny blonde rummaged around inside. She slammed the trunk lid and walked back to the open driver’s door. As she slid behind the wheel, she looked over at his passing car and seemed to stare. Larry looked in his rearview mirror. She stared so boldly at him. He was surprised she could even see him through the dark tint on his windows, but she clearly had been looking. On a different night, one when he didn’t have a boy bound and gagged in his trunk and a state trooper on his tail, he might have followed that car to see where things might lead. Was the blonde the kind of woman who liked a bit of danger? Maybe meet a guy on a highway or at a rest stop and have a go, something she’d never confess to her husband but would shock her sophisticated friends with at the club? And if Larry followed her and found her unwilling? Well, that didn’t necessarily mean he wouldn’t have his fun anyway. Either way, on a different night he might have explored those possibilities. But not tonight. Tonight he had other plans.
He drove for six-point-eight miles with the trooper behind him before the cop finally slowed and entered a turnaround to head south again. Larry blew out a breath. He reached under the seat and reengaged the safety on his .45.
“I know what you did, you little shit,” Larry said loudly.
IN THE TRUNK, Miguel squeezed his eyes shut as tightly as he could, but couldn’t stop the tears. His plan might have worked. Even though his ankles were taped together, he’d managed to kick at the taillight assembly. Apparently, his efforts had paid off because—as he almost didn’t dare to hope, but exactly as he prayed—a cop had pulled the car over. All he had to do was make a sound, one single sound. It seemed that God had answered his prayers for the first time in his life, and Miguel just had to make one sound. But when the time came, he just couldn’t bring himself to do it. He had wanted to scream into the tape across his mouth, to kick his bound feet against the inside of the trunk, to raise his taped hands and bang them against the underside of the trunk lid. But he did nothing but lie there, crying silently. He was a coward. He wanted to believe he had kept quiet to save the cop’s life, but he knew he was also afraid of pissing off Larry. Miguel couldn’t decide whether to be ashamed or proud of himself. So he just cried.
LARRY TURNED THE radio back on, and as INXS sang about “the devil inside,” he started to fantasize about the weekend. He was pissed at Miguel, so he might rearrange the items on the agenda he’d planned. There was supposed to be fun first, then pain, then more fun, and so forth. Larry thought, however, that after this stunt, maybe some pain should come first. He smiled. That was all right with him. That was just fine with him.
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
NATHAN HAD TAKEN to driving with one eye open and one eye closed. To shake things up and keep himself awake, he changed eyes from time to time, closing the left eye for a while, then switching to the right. He’d never been this tired. Damn that Burt and his sleeping pills. He should have tried harder to sleep without them. Or he could have simply followed Burt’s instructions and taken only one pill. He’d probably still be battling Mr. Sandman, but at least it would have been a closer fight. As it was, Old Sandy had put him on the canvas a few times and was looking for an opening for the knockout punch. Those close calls had scared the bejesus out of Nathan, but he wouldn’t let himself pull over and take a break. The urgency in his dreams was unmistakable. He had to get to his house in New Hampshire as soon as possible.
Cold wind roared through the open windows. The radio pumped heavy metal, which Nathan hated with a passion, at nearly top volume. Two Red Bulls and a cup of black coffee surged through Nathan’s body. Still, his chin kept falling to his chest.
“You gotta stay awake,” someone says in a voice that is half whispered, half spoken.
Nathan looks over. The passenger seat is empty. He looks into his rearview mirror and sees a silhouette in the backseat. It’s Jeremy. At least it looks like Jeremy. He’s in shadow, but his general shape is right. But try as he might, Nathan can’t see his boy’s face. Does that mean something? Has something happened to Jeremy’s face? Is he perhaps trapped in some shadowy place, waiting for Nathan to rescue him?
“You have to stay awake or you’ll never make it,” Jeremy says again, if it is indeed Jeremy. It sounds like it might be him but it’s too hard for Nathan to tell because of that shadowy voice hovering a little above a whisper.
The car’s windows are still wide open. Wind still rushes in. The radio is still on at nearly full volume. Yet there is silence in the car but for their voices.
Nathan tries to keep his eyes on the road while stealing glances in the mirror. No matter how he squints or strains his eyes, his vision cannot penetrate the shadows around the younger man’s face.
“You’re going to have to swim,” Jeremy says again.
“Swim?” Nathan asks. He gives up trying to see his son’s face in the darkness.
“You’re going to have to swim.”
“I don’t understand.”
“You have to stay awake or you’ll never make it.”
“I’m trying, son.”
“You’re going to have to swim.”
“To save you, Jeremy? I’m going to have to swim to save you?” Silence. “Jeremy?”
The backseat was empty again. The wind and radio were deafening.
“Jeremy? Please, tell me where you are. Tell me how to help you.”
Silence. Nathan kept one hand on the wheel and rubbed his eyes with the fingers of his other hand. He was damned lucky he hadn’t driven right off the road, falling asleep at the wheel like that. He looked at the dashboard clock. He should be at the house in forty minutes. Until then, he’d keep both eyes open and on the road from now on. He couldn’t risk any more close calls.
Nine minutes later, someone says, “Slow down and stay awake.”
Nathan hadn’t noticed, but the wind and music have faded away again. He looks over at Jeremy, sitting in the passenger seat now. He still can’t see his son’s face, but it has to be Jeremy. Besides, the silhouetted profile looks right and he’s wearing a tan-and-brown camouflage Marine utility uniform, like Jeremy wore in Afghanistan.
“Jeremy?” Nathan asks. “Tell me what to do.”
“Slow down and stay awake.”
; “I am awake.”
“You’re not. Slow down.”
Nathan looks over at the shadow, at his son.
“Slow down over this hill,” Jeremy says, “and wake up.”
“Jeremy, please, tell me more. Where are you? How do I find you?”
“Slow down now.”
“Jeremy…”
“Now…”
Nathan looked away from Jeremy for a moment, out through the windshield. When he turned back again, the passenger seat was empty. He darted his eyes up to the rearview mirror but there was nothing but shadow in the backseat. Nathan was alone. He felt alone. One second, his son was there; the next second, he was gone. Nathan rubbed something from his eyes, either sleep or a tear, and looked out at the highway just in time to see Jeremy stagger from the shoulder onto the road, into the car’s headlight beams. Nathan jerked the wheel hard and the car swerved into the left lane, fishtailing violently. Nathan corrected, almost overcorrected, but finally managed to bring the car to a stop on the shoulder of the grass median. He turned around in his seat, certain that Jeremy would be gone again…but there he was, limned by the bright light of a nearly full moon, standing just off the shoulder of the highway, forty yards back. Not wanting to take his eyes off his son for fear that he would fade away yet again, Nathan reached down, shifted into reverse, and backed along the shoulder.
Could this really be happening? Could Nathan have followed his son through his dreams and found him, finally, after four long years?
Nathan’s heart beat wildly. He was almost there. And Jeremy was still there. He was standing strangely, like he was injured, but he was still there. Flesh and blood this time, not some dream phantom.
Drawn Page 22