A Cold Copper Moon (The Cooper Series Book 3)

by Richard Conrath

  The Man’s neck stiffened and he whispered something back to the Asp, like he was mad. But the Asp pulled back from Henry like he was mad too.

  But the Boy who was no longer a boy was angry also. Not only had this man, Henry, kidnapped him and lied to him, but now was saying he was his father. Then Maxie felt for the gun to make sure it was there. His mother noticed. She looked worried and shook her head. So Maxie took his hand away from the gun. The very gun that his father had given to his mother and shown her how to use—in case she had to. And here he was—carrying it—maybe having to use it—just like his mother.

  Just then Maxie heard the sound of a helicopter in the distance. His mother squeezed his arm again, harder this time.

  Chapter One Hundred Eighteen

  Wong

  The helicopter was keeping pace with our car, maybe a hundred yards behind, its lights blinking, dodging trees and phone lines. Then it roared ahead and almost sat on the car ahead that swerved like it was a living thing trying to avoid a predator. Then suddenly the helicopter veered off to the right, its long slim body disappearing over the fields, its motor belching out a hellish noise.

  It reappeared in the distance—the sound of its beating rotors growing louder as it came straight at the car, low over the road, its floodlight bursting like a flash bulb over the car, and over the highway, and over the fields on both sides of the highway, and a loudspeaker blared at the car, Wong’s voice, loud and warning, “Pull over and stop! Now!”

  The car swerved against the blinding light, Richie braking hard so he wouldn’t hit it, the helicopter hovering and blowing up a windstorm. Then Henry’s car hit a ditch on the right side of the road, coming to rest against a fence that lined a pasture, and it sat there for a few moments, its motor running, its lights burning into the field.

  The door opened—partially—and a man got out and yelled something, through the noise of the copter overhead, and shook his fist, and then climbed back into the vehicle and closed the door. The car continued to sit there, in the ditch, against the fence, its motor still running, its lights burning a hole into the darkness.

  Chapter One Hundred Nineteen

  What He Said

  What he said—the Man—is that he would kill his son, he would kill his wife, if the helicopter didn’t leave, if Cooper didn’t leave, but it seemed as though the only people who heard him were Maxie, and Jillie, and the Asp. And that wasn’t good, the Boy thought. Because...well because no one was going to leave and then the Man would kill them both—that is if he had heard him correctly. That Henry, the man who had kidnapped him, who was saying that he was his father, who was saying that Jillie was his wife—and that was crazy, thought Maxie—was going to kill him and his mother in the end.

  Then the Man got back into the car, his face red and angry, and turned toward the Boy and toward Jillie, and there was a look there, like he was now not thinking anymore—he had always seemed reasonable before—but not now—and he had a gun in his hand. Maxie had seen it before. It had a brown grip.

  The Man was waving it at them, yelling at the top of his voice like a cop into a megaphone, “I meant what I said. If I can’t...”

  Jillie said, “You wouldn’t!” and the Man slapped her across the face, his eyes full of rage, and the mother felt for the place where he had slapped her, and fell back into the seat, gripping Maxie’s arm so tightly it hurt, and then the Man turned away from them, and Maxie felt for his own gun again. It was poking him in the back, but it made him feel safe, against this man whose name was Henry, who had kidnapped him for eight years and lied and cheated him of his parents—this Man who had been with his mother—Maxie had seen him kiss her—he must have lied to her also—this Man who tried to take his mother away from him and his home away from him—who had said she was dead! And now he had the nerve to slap her—his own mother—in front of him. And the Boy, who was now a man, who was no longer a defenseless, small boy kidnapped by two men and taken to a stranger’s house in South Carolina, far from his home in Ohio, this Boy was angry and he now had a rage inside—this Boy robbed of his family, and of his childhood, and of his friends, and of all the things he had back home in Muskingum, Ohio—even his bed and his toys!—this Boy was furious with the Man, with this evil person, who was sitting in front of him and even now planning to kill them because the police weren’t going to go away and his dad wasn’t going to go away—not this time—so Maxie raised the pistol to the back of Henry’s head and Henry saw him do it in the rearview mirror—but it was too late—and the Asp saw him do it—out of his side vision—but it was too late—because Maxie put the gun up against the back of Henry’s head—where all of his intelligence was—against his skull—which was hard against the gun—and he pulled the trigger—and blood, and skin, and bone, and one of Henry’s eyes, blew out and covered the windshield, and the bullet carried through the windshield and out into the night, and under the helicopter that was hovering overhead, and it buried itself in a distant field after it was spent and took Henry’s blood and his skin and his bone and dove with it into the ground.

  Then Jillie screamed, and the Turk, moving quickly, snatched the gun from Maxie who seemed shocked by what he had done.

  And the Asp took Maxie roughly by the back of his head and leaned into his face and said, “I shot him.” Then the Asp put the gun down on the seat next to him, took Maxie’s face in both hands and looked into his eyes. “You did the right thing,” he said. “I should have shot him myself.”

  And about that time, Cooper was trying to break into the car and he was yelling.

  Chapter One Hundred Twenty

  Cooper's View

  I watched it happen, the helicopter bearing down on the car in front of us, the driver swerving, then losing control and slamming into a ditch, sliding side-wise about fifty feet and finally coming to rest against a wire fence. It stayed there for a few moments, the only sound the chop-chop of the copter as it circled overhead. Then the screeching and grinding of metal on metal as the driver wrestled the door open and climbed out and, yes, for sure it was Henry. He yelled out but I couldn’t tell what he was saying and he stood there for a few moments maybe to see if we had gotten the message. He was strangely cool. Strangely relaxed. Like you would figure a psychiatrist would be when he was with a patient.

  Then, satisfied maybe, he climbed back into the car, pulling the door shut, metal against metal, screeching and shrieking its resistance.

  Behind us the helicopter was landing on a strip of open highway, its blades narrowly missing trees and telephone lines. The pilot skilled—like he had been in combat. And as soon as it was on the ground, the SWAT team leaped out of the copter, one by one, in full combat gear, and headed our way.

  Then a shot from Henry’s car. I froze. Wondering. Had Henry shot Jillie? Had he shot Maxie? I threw open my door and sprinted for the car, like in a hundred-yard dash, making the distance in seconds. Richie and Louise far back. When I got close, I slowed, and approached the car from behind. In the glare of the headlights from our own car I could see what looked like blood on the windows and I saw the shadows of movement within. I banged twice on the rear passenger door window and then yanked at the door, pulling it open, and Jillie almost fell out. In the front Henry was slumped over the wheel, his head hanging to the side. A big hole at the base of his skull and blood and something that looked like brain matter leaking out.

  I climbed in next to Jillie and Maxie. Then the SWAT team cleared the driver’s door and screamed at the Turk in the front seat to remain in the car as he was. “Hands over your head!” the lead man yelled. “And do not move!” The Turk did as he was told, hands locked together, his head bowed.

  Wong was there, right next to the agent who had yelled. He leaned down, and put his hand on my shoulder: “Are you okay?” And I said I was. And then he looked to Jillie whose head was buried in my shoulder, now wet from her tears. But she didn’t see him. Neither did Maxie.

  It’s over, I whispered as I took her hand.
Maxie was holding on to her like a Velcro monkey. I held them in my arms, thinking of the time before the kidnapping. In Muskingum, Ohio. In the Fall. When the trees were just beginning to turn. When I was teaching Intro to Philosophy. And Jillie was home with Maxie. And then the Dean came to my door and...

  But you know the rest of the story.

  Part Six

  After The War

  Chapter One Hundred Twenty-One

  Back Home

  Monday, December 12

  Twelve Shopping Days Before Christmas

  We flew back to Florida—I mean all of us: Louise, Richie, Jillie, Maxie, and Joe E. Lewis. Charley stayed behind.

  Charley would need more time to recover from his wound. He was shot at close range. His shoulder showed it. I visited him at the hospital and thanked him for what he had done and said sorry about what happened to him. He laughed.

  “No problem. Damn lucky to be alive. Glad I was able to be there for your son and Jillie.”

  “I’ll always be grateful,” I said and shook the hand of his good shoulder.

  “Take care of Joey,” he had said, wincing as he tried to raise his hand to shake.

  And that’s why Joey was exiting the plane with us in Fort Lauderdale, Florida, where there was no snow on the ground, the temperature was eighty-one degrees, and palm trees were bending in the afternoon breeze.

  The six of us piled into my Volvo and headed for Oceanside, Louise driving, Richie and Joe E. Lewis squeezing in the front with her, Jillie, Maxie and I in the back. I rode all the way back to my Everglades house with my arms over the shoulders of both. Louise was watching us in the rearview mirror. She gave me a silent okay with her eyes.

  It’s hard to describe what happened after we got home. Sammy was waiting on the porch. Richie went to the fridge to feed him. Louise hugged me for a good minute. I knew this was hard for her. She held tight, probably unable to gauge her part—here—tonight—in this reunion. Jillie watched. And then...well then Maxie and Jillie and I went to the back porch, opened up several deck chairs and began to get caught up on eight years, Maxie telling us in detail about the men who had taken him, about the ride to South Carolina and the lies they told him, about how sorry he was that he got into the car and Jillie and I—each taking one of his hands—telling him it was okay—that the thing was, he was back, and that’s all that mattered.

  Then I looked up and Richie and Louise were standing in the doorway. Richie came over. “Give your Uncle Richie a hug, Maxie,” and Louise came over to Maxie also, her arms out, and Maxie hugged her, and then Jillie did, too.

  The reunion went on like that all afternoon and into the evening, catching up on Maxie’s last eight years—including Joey, the orphan, named after Joe E. Lewis.

  “Dude,” said Joey, “look what you did! You shot the psycho who took you and who shot my Uncle Charley. Man! How’d you do that?” he exclaimed, like he wanted the whole story, all the details.

  “I don’t know,” said Maxie, looking down and away from Joey. “I just did.”

  He was quiet after that. He was quiet that way for most of the day. He had that far-away look of someone who wasn’t really back, yet—still in that house in South Carolina, still trying to figure out what had happened to him these past eight years. I figured it would take a long time before he would be back to the Maxie I knew—if ever. But at least he was back home, safe, and that’s a hell of a lot more than many kids who go missing ever get. Like the girl in the car wash in south Florida who was videoed being led away by a stranger who took her hand and she followed him into the street, away from the cameras, and away from her parents who were inside, completely unaware, and the girl never knew, until...And that’s when I shut down my imagination. Because I don’t want to think about what goes through the mind of a child who has been taken, like the child in the carwash, like Maxie, who will never be able to share what went through his mind as he was shoved into the car and as he watched out the window on that long trip to South Carolina, because he really couldn’t or wouldn’t want to share that.

  Children are such innocents in this cold, cold world.

  Chapter One Hundred Twenty-Two

  That Same Night

  Richie was barbequing in the back yard, Herman watching from the wooden walkway that leads to the dock, when a call came in. It was Cynthia Hayward.

  “I’ve got Cleveland Wong with me, Coop. We’re only about twenty minutes away. Can we drop over?”

  “Why are you asking?” I said. “Of course! You like barbequed ribs?”

  “Wow!” she said.

  “Stay overnight,” I said. “We’ve got room.”

  They were in my drive at 5:35 just as the sun was disappearing. Sammy came around the house with me. Part of the welcoming committee. Herman stayed put.

  “I’m so happy for you, Coop,” said Cynthia as she climbed out of Wong’s black SUV and gave me a hug. Wong came around the van and held out his hand. “Cooper,” and we just shook—Wong doesn’t hug. But he was clearly moved, holding my eyes for a few moments then hurriedly looking around as though embarrassed.

  He finally broke the silence. “Where is your son? I must see this boy!”

  “He’s in the house,” I said and motioned for them to follow

  “You call DeFelice yet?” he said as we headed up the porch. I realized I hadn’t. Too fast, too crazy. Gotta call him tonight, I thought. Damn.

  Cynthia was shaking her head. “Who would’ve thought? Maxie’s back.” Then, “There’s a story here, Cooper,” Cynthia, the journalist. And I knew she was right. And I knew she would tell it along with the story about the murder of her father.

  Maxie was talking with Jillie and Louise as we came into the living room, Richie listening intently from my favorite Lazy-Boy lounger, catching up. As I watched Maxie, I couldn’t help but wonder where he would eventually decide to live. Columbus or the Everglades. All in good time, I thought. But I couldn’t help hoping that...

  Then Wong and Cynthia hugged Maxie—I had never seen Wong do that—hug, I mean. And they didn’t shoot questions at him about his experiences—thank God. But I knew Cynthia was already writing her feature article about a boy who came back after eight years—how often does that happen? And a second article about the killing of Jack Hayward, a local, popular fishing captain.

  “Where’s Huck?” said Cynthia, turning back to me.

  “He was with Wong the last I knew,” I said.

  “I dropped him at his house in Everglades City,” Wong said quickly. “Florida Fish and Wildlife gave him a permit to hunt gators—him and ten other hunters. He’s getting his gear together. Should be here—soon.

  “We need to talk, Coop—the three of us,” Wong added quickly, looking over at Cynthia, “some place where there’s some privacy.” I knew what he wanted to talk about—Li Lang and her boyfriend for one. And Jack’s death for another.

  “The back porch,” I said and led them both through the kitchen and out the screen door. There was a loud rustle in the mangroves near the dock.

  “What’s that?” said Wong, looking nervously into the dark.

  “Probably Herman,” I said.

  “Herman?”

  “Cooper’s pet alligator,” Cynthia explained. And there was a silence.

  “I hope it’s in a cage,” Wong said, looking around as I pulled over some deck chairs.

  “He’s by the dock,” I said. “Alligators are more afraid of you than you are of them.”

  “Uh-huh. And that’s a line I never believe,” Wong said. “Kinda like sharks—they don’t bother you if you don’t bother them,” he added, shaking his head.

  We settled in the chairs around the table, Wong still watching through the darkness nervously. “You never told me about Herman before, Cooper. Why not?”

  I shrugged. “You never asked.”

  Then, “How you doin’, Cleveland,” said Richie, barging through the screen door. Right behind him were Louise and Huck, who was newly arrived and looki
ng like an old Florida cowboy, buckskins and all. There went our private talk.

  “Where’s Herman?” Huck said, his alligator gun slung over his shoulder.

  “Not even funny,” I said. “Herman’s over by the dock, and he can hear...”

  “Didn’t mean to offend,” Huck whispered, taking a seat next to me. “Herman is a friend of mine. I respect him.”

  “Good,” I said. “Cause if you don’t….”

  He smiled.

  “What about the men in the fast boat?” said Louise, pulling her chair closer to Wong. “Did you catch them?”

  “I did. And they’re both sitting in your jail,” he replied. “Incidentally Rodriquez was wondering where the hell you were. I covered. Said you were working a case for me.”

  “I told him I needed some R and R,” Louise said, crossing her legs.

  Then Jillie and Maxie and Joe E. Lewis came through the door carrying a bottle of wine, an eight-pack of beer, and some glasses.

  “You old enough to serve alcohol?” I asked Joey.

  “You bet,” he said. And he poured for me and himself.

  Sammy was there also, moving from chair to chair and rubbing against legs. He stopped and looked up at Richie. Richie picked him up and put him on his lap. Sammy curled up and purred like a lawn mower.

  “So...” began Wong, “thanks to your heads-up, our helicopter was able to spot the fast boat. It was running north toward the Everglades...”