Little Boy Blues (35 page)

Mombourquette was the first to answer his phone.

“I guess you feel like a dope,” he said, “dating a crazed killer, and let’s not forget trashing Stan’s Buick.”

“Sorry to disappoint, Lennie, but it’s not P. J.”

“Listen, we didn’t have enough to hold him. But we’ll get him.”

“Get this. It’s not P. J. I never really believed it. The person you want is Nicholas Southern.”

“What? The politician? Are you fucking nuts?”

“It may sound crazy, but hear me out. This guy’s whole political platform is built on each person taking responsibility for his own actions. He’s always howling about the need for law and order and let’s lock up those bad guys forever. Now it turns out he was a kid in trouble with the law. If word gets out he’s not squeaky clean, the media will take him down. Think piranhas.”

“Even supposing that’s true, no way the guy’s juvenile records will get out to the press. So if you think we’re going to hassle a would-be politician who’s in the news every friggin’ day, you’d better think again. Next you’ll be telling me here’s three good reasons to arrest the Pope. I haven’t forgotten your boyfriend, Camilla.”

“I didn’t tell you to arrest P. J.”

“You know what, Camilla? You cause everything bad to happen.”

“Where’s Deveau? I need to talk to him.”

“I don’t know where he is. Get off my phone.”

Deveau still didn’t answer his own cellphone.

P. J. did pick up on my third attempt. I guess I shouldn’t have been surprised that he wasn’t interested in my theory. Or anything I had to say. There’s something about a dial tone that speaks volumes.

I settled for joining the milling throng, craning my neck to check for Jimmy Ferguson among the thousands of excited young people jockeying for position near the Main Stage.

Suddenly Gussie yanked so hard on the leash that I fell to
my knees. I struggled, but found myself dragged away from the Main Stage. Gussie began to lope away from the crowd with me attempting to get control. Gussie’s lope grew to a gallop, and we tore up the hill towards the Acoustic stage. Gussie was obviously aiming towards a figure running ahead, dodging and tripping.

Another person streaked along after the first. Neither one wore the red baseball cap designating Platoon A, B or D. I knew the first runner was Jimmy. I was just as certain that the second figure was Nicholas Southern.

Up the hill the huge swooping sail of the Acoustic tent dominated the view. There was nothing and no one near it. A bus with images of a band was parked off to the side, probably packed with sound gear. Maybe there would be musicians or roads near it. Maybe there’d be help there. On any other night, the hill would have been packed with people, but tonight, they were all clustered by the Main Stage. The security people would be working that area, keeping the kids from leaping onto the stage, keeping control. No sign of them in this area.

I ran like hell to reach Jimmy. Gussie helped. I shrieked Jimmy’s name. But by this time the band had launched into its opening number and the crowd was screaming louder.

I gasped raggedly as we tore up the hill, tripping on rocks, divots, paper cups. Racing to head off the killer. Far ahead Jimmy Ferguson tripped and turned a terrified white face behind him.

My hands shook as I pulled out the cellphone and dialled 911. The dispatcher knew who Jimmy Ferguson was.

“There are police on site. Send them to the Acoustic tent.”

“I can’t hear you.”

“The Acoustic tent,” I screamed.

“You’ll have to speak louder.”

Gussie yanked hard, and I fell flat on my face. I dropped the cellphone and the cane as I clung to Gussie’s lead.

Jimmy had vanished. So had Nicholas Southern. There was nowhere they could be but in the Acoustic tent. Gussie pulled, I followed. Up onto the stage.

I yelled a message meant for two sets of ears. Even this far from the Main Stage, the band was clear and loud.

“Nicholas, leave Jimmy alone. You can’t kill us all.”

“Don’t be so sure,” came the voice behind me.

I froze but managed to say,” But why?”

“Because I have something important to do. I am going to make a difference in politics. I am going to the top. And I am not going to let you little pissants stop me. You’re in my way, and you’re not important. Hello, Jimmy.”

I whipped around, expecting Jimmy but seeing only the empty stage. The sky exploded. A sharp blow to the back of the head will do that. I don’t remember falling off the stage, but I must have hit the wooden stage stairs head on.

Hard to say how long I was out. When I staggered to my feet, the stage was empty. Blood seeped into my eyes. No sign of Jimmy. Gussie was gone too. I pushed my way up onto the stage. The floor and sides were painted dead black, so I clattered around in the dark, tripping over the onstage cable covers.

I tried to control my breathing and listen. I thought I heard whimpering, ragged breathing nearby.

Jimmy? Should I call his name? If he answered would that alert Nicholas Southern?

We are each responsible for our own actions. Fair enough, Nicholas, but which actions? If I drew attention to Jimmy, would that draw Southern to him too?

There has to be a plan. Think, think.

I wasn’t sure of the shape at the back of the stage area. I felt my way around, trying not to miss anything. My head swam. Silver dots danced in my eyes. Cover the area. Left to right and back. Doesn’t matter if you go over some ground again.

Right to left. Left to right.

Wipe blood off face with sleeve.

Right to left. Left to right.

Why not a scrap of light?

Slowly, painfully, I crept until finally, I felt the warm, trembling body. Heard the terror in the sob.

“It’s okay, Jimmy,” I whispered. “We’re going to be all right. This time it will be all right.”

I only wished I believed it.

Gussie licked my hand. From somewhere to my left, I heard the roar of an engine.

Police? No.

A truck? A fire truck maybe?

I knew what it had to be. My heart sank. Nicholas was back. With the bus.

The floor shuddered as the bus hit the supports of the tent. I wasn’t sure how stable those tent posts were. Jimmy shook.

“Come on, guys, we’re getting out of here,” I yelled.

The next slam of the truck must have caused the structure to sag. I heard the high whine of the bus. What, in reverse? Then a loud pop as the cable anchoring the structure snapped. The heavy vinyl sail sagged. The metal studs groaned. More snapping from outside, and then the whoosh as the vinyl tent roof sank slowly to the stage. I fought for breath.

The bus rammed the side again and again. Was he crazy? Did he think no one would see him knocking down the Acoustic tent with a frigging bus?

It appeared that he did.

What difference did it make? We were dead anyway.

My keys dug into my leg as the heavy canvas and supports pressed our bodies down. We were trapped. What good were keys with no door and no way out? It was almost funny.

Wait. Think.

I felt until I found the Swiss Army knife. Struggled to find the right blade. Not the corkscrew. Not the goddam stupid little scissors. The knife blade. Struggled to open it. Pushed with all my might to cut through the vinyl without breaking the blade.

Outside, the slow crush of the bus continued. Back and forth. Southern had nothing to lose at this stage and everything to gain by wiping out Jimmy and me. Finally, I managed to work a medium sized split in the canvas. A speck of light appeared. I sliced, pushed, forced the hole larger.

The bus hit again with a thunderous crash. The rest of the supports were going.

“Get through, Jimmy,” I yelled. “Push. Get through.”

We tumbled through and out onto the hillside. I had Jimmy by the collar. I’d be goddamed if I’d let him get away again. A yelp told me I had Gussie’s tail.

We rolled.

No one heard. But someone saw. The bus rumbled toward us, down the hill. Zigging. Zagging.

Somewhere through the racket and the pain in my head I heard voices. People. Banging. Shouting. People reached out.

“Jimmy! Jimmy.”

“Oh, shit, are they dead?”

“Holy Mary, Mother of God.”

I heard the crackle of walkie-talkies, voices, loud voices. Someone lifted me.

“Help Jimmy,” I said, staggering around.

I heard Deveau’s voice. “Jimmy’s okay.”

“And Gussie?”

“Gussie too.”

“Good.”

“How about you? Gonna make it?”

“Yes. Where’s Nicholas Southern?”

“Where he should be.”

I thought I knew what he meant by that, but I can’t say it bothered me.

In the background, unbelievably, the music played on.

Jimmy’s EEGs and neurological tests show some damage, probably caused by a lack of medication and the immense stress of his ten days on the loose. We can only assume he suffered several seizures. Only time will tell the long term impact. The phrase the doctors use is cautious optimism. Who knows how much help he’ll need to get over his ordeal, but his family will make sure he gets it.

On a sad note, the brave and loyal Gussie seems to trigger distress in Jimmy now. A one-way trip to the Humane Society seems an inappropriate reward.

The media had a field day with the fall of the wonder boy, Nicholas Southern. Bit by bit, we are still piecing together what happened. We can only speculate that somehow Jimmy reacted in a panic when he first saw Southern in Sydney. Southern was quick enough to figure out why. I believe Southern thought he’d better nip that little PR problem right away. Perhaps someday Jimmy will be able to tell us if he recognized Southern as the bully or merely panicked without knowing why. Alvin thinks he might have reacted to Southern’s voice. Whatever it was, Southern wasn’t going to take a chance on word getting out. The one fact we are sure of: Nicholas is a much bigger story as a dead crazy than he ever was as a wannabe politician. Calls for stronger laws are loud and clear. Nicholas Southern would have approved.

P. J. got the scoop, and the scoop behind the scoop. Bad boy grows up and pretends to be good boy. Makes a lot of money. Fools lots of people. No names mentioned.

I knew giving P. J. the tip-off to interview Father Blaise about seeing Nicholas Southern in Sydney would add drama along with the story of the attack in the park. P. J. got some serious sound bites out of Donald Donnie and Loretta too. He even got some mileage out of an interview with René Janveau bemoaning his shattered Gadzooks Gallery. The heavily bandaged René made for a first-rate photo op too.

In the end, I was proud of P. J. His feature story revealed his own inadvertent role in keeping Southern up to speed on Jimmy’s whereabouts and our tactics through seemingly idle chit-chat. He didn’t go easy on himself.

We’re still not clear how much Honey Redmore knew about Southern. There’s not much chance we’ll ever prove Will was the second boy in the park. Alvin’s statement based on photos would be flimsy in court. Contact from the Redmore’s legal representative put a serious chill on that angle of P. J.’s coverage. But it’s funny how word spreads with journalists.

I’m not sure if things will be okay between P. J. and me. Ever. Some accusations you shouldn’t believe for a minute about a person. He knows it. I know it. And there’s not much I can do but wait and see.

Father Blaise went home to Sydney in a wheelchair, and he’ll probably stay in one for the rest of his life. He’s still as sharp as ever though, and he has helped to clear up some of the confusion about what happened. According to Deveau, Father Blaise has a clear memory of seeing Reefer Keefer arguing with Nicholas Southern in downtown Sydney on Canada Day. The local cops have equally clear memories of Reefer using embarrassing information about people as a source of supplementary income. That would explain a lot.

The ballistics test showed that Mombourquette’s bullet was the one that stopped Nicholas Southern. It’s administrative leave for him until the
SIU
report comes back. If he had a life, he might enjoy that. But he doesn’t.

Alvin’s referral for therapy has come through. I thanked my doctor. Let’s hope it does the trick. Mrs. Parnell found him another apartment in Hull, which he has already begun work on decorating. He will be back at Justice for Victims. I will cope.

Deveau remained in town for the last four days of Bluesfest. I sat next to him through James Brown, Wilson Pickett and Little Feat. I spent the shows in a haze of painkillers. There’s something to be said for drugs and music. Sunglasses too, if both your eyes are black.

He stayed over at my place. In case I had a medical crisis in the night. Or had a nightmare. Or needed scrambled eggs in the morning. Or something.

He has a warm heart and cold feet. I believe there’s a song about that. At any rate, I guess he’s not with me for my looks.

Today is July 16 and Deveau has to go back to Sydney. His kids are coming home from music camp. He has a life. He has a job. He’s out of holiday time.

Mrs. Parnell has weathered it better than anyone. But then, war becomes her.

For me, I’ve been told to take it easy. I think Gussie and I will do that. Mrs. Parnell’s cat will have to stop sulking one of these days. I keep my feet up and stay on hold with the insurance company over the Buick.

The Fergusons have decided that I’m a good guy after all. They’ve taken to calling me collect twice a day. I have invested in Call Display. We now have seven days left until the rest of the MacPhee family returns from Scotland. The technical term for that will be Armageddon.