Silent Son (24 page)

Charles reviewed the document and glanced up at King. “Oh, God!”

“Step out of the room, please!” The team leader suddenly approached the intruders and plowed them toward the door with his
massive frame. In the background, the torch was being lit, and a masked figure crouched by the safe.

“Okay, okay,” King said, backing toward the door.

The huge officer kept advancing until the attorney and the headmaster were outside the room. Then he stationed two of his
men to block the entrance.

Headmaster Charles was working overtime on the handkerchief in his sweaty hands. “This isn’t right,” he whispered to King.

The attorney had risen to his tiptoes in an effort to see over the shoulders of the guards. The torch man was etching the
safe door with a dagger of flame, and there was an acrid smell of burning in the air. King lowered himself and seized Charles
by the lapel, leading him out of earshot of the officers in the room. “What are you so nervous about?” King asked. “Is there
anything in there that you should be afraid of?”

Charles continued mopping his hands. “Don’t think so…” he said. “But…”

King casually crossed his arms. “But what?”

“If anything does come out. they’ll close down the school! Our reputation… the finances…” His words were almost hysterical.

King smiled. “You’re forgetting something.”

Charles stopped fidgeting.

“You hired me to make sure it doesn’t,” King said smugly.

The headmaster took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. “But the police think Starke and Miller killed the Bowers. They’re
both connected to the school. This is a disaster…”

King put his hand on Charles’s shoulder and squeezed the nerve. The headmaster winced. “You’d better calm down,” King said.
“Nothing is going to happen. The whole case is bogus. Against Miller. Against Starke…” His face twisted into a sneer. “Lawson
doesn’t have a thing he can use in court! He’s so upset his boy got hurt he’s making mistakes all over the place. Nobody has
a thing to worry about.”

Just then a cheer went up in the room. King rushed to the door and peeked over a shoulder.

The safe was open, and the cops were busy extracting its contents. King shifted to get a better view.

They were piling documents on the table, labeling them, and placing them in plastic bags.

The headmaster pushed against King’s spine. “What do you see?” he whispered excitedly.

The attorney turned suddenly. “Go back to your office and wait for me there!”

Charles retreated slowly, then picked up his pace until he was almost running.

King smiled. “Damn worrywart,” he whispered to himself. Then he arched up on his toes again.

The safe was empty now, and all of the items inside were neatly stacked on the desk, each in the protective cover of an evidence
bag.

King scanned the faces of the officers in the room. Most were familiar. Officers he’d run across in court. He caught the eye
of a stop team member and signaled a greeting.

The officer, an older member of the group, issued a subtle acknowledgment with his eyes.

King cocked his head slightly and sent a message: meet me outside.

The officer’s eyes barely flickered: okay.

A short time later King was in the quadrangle. The grounds crew was busy rounding up the scattered chairs, and the burr of
a chainsaw suddenly erupted in the distance. He surveyed the damage. The winds had snapped some tree limbs and wreaked havoc
with the furniture, but the structures were intact. The sun was out again, dipping toward the ridge line, and the humidity
was starting to creep back.

“Kent,” a deep voice said from behind.

King turned as officer Barry Light walked toward him, his arms stacked with envelopes.

“Hi, Barry.” King smiled warmly. “What’d you get?”

The policeman scanned the area and signaled “walk with me” with his chin.

King fell in beside him.

“Records mostly. Family histories. Birth certificates. Death certificates. Stuff like that.”

“What else?” King whispered. He was sauntering casually, as if they were simply sharing the sidewalk.

“Bunch of cash bands. Hundreds. Thousands…”

“Any cash?” King’s mouth barely moved.

“Not a penny.”

King glanced at the stack of folders. “Anything else?”

The officer slowed his pace. They were nearing the parking lot.

“Yeah. Some weird shit.”

King slowed to keep abreast, his ears tuned.

“Tattoos—temporary tattoos.”

King stopped suddenly, and the officer halted with him.

“You got’em with you, Barry?”

The officer glanced around nervously, then sifted through the pile in his arms. In the meanwhile, he’d resumed walking. “Uh-huh,”
he whispered.

“Let me see’em,” King said.

“How?” They were almost to the police car.

“Drop the bag, and I’ll pick it up,” King whispered.

They reached the car, and the officer suddenly got clumsy. The evidence bags squeezed out of his arms and scattered on the
gravel.

King bent down to help, and picked up one of the square plastic casings. He lingered for a moment in a crouched position,
studying a set of multicolored decals through the clear cover. Then he stood up and handed the envelope to the officer.

“Thanks, Kent,” Light said.

“No, Barry,” King replied with a smile. “Thank you.” Then he turned and walked nonchalantly away, pondering what he’d just
seen. Starke had a thing for tattoos, that was clear. But his choice of designs was interesting. Some of the grotesque images
looked damn familiar. A lot like the markings that ran the length of Roscoe Miller’s arms.

Granville sat by the window of his grandmother’s house and looked out. It was dusk and the fireflies were swarming.

“Lightning bugs,” he called to his mother. “Can I go out and catch some?” It was a once-a-year treat. A chance to trap stars
in a bottle, put them beside the bed, and get twinkled to sleep.

“Come away,” Carole called. “Come away from the window.” She was still keeping her son sequestered.

“Can I?” the boy begged, his face drooping.

“No!” Carole said sternly. “Not now. Not tonight.”

“When?” Granville asked.

Carole looked at him in silence. “When?” was a good question. Gardner had phoned earlier and spoken to her mother. He was
calling from Pennsylvania to say the coast was clear. They had two men in custody, and the danger was over. Please tell Carole
to come home, he’d said. Please!

Carole looked at her son. He was so small. So vulnerable. He wanted to go outside and play, but if she had her way he’d never
go out. There were too many things she could not control out there.

“When can I go out?” Granville repeated. The imprisonment was taking its toll. He was getting restless.

Carole stroked his blond hair with her hand. “Maybe tomorrow,” she answered. Then she thought about what she had just said.
Tomorrow. What was going to happen tomorrow? If they went home, Gardner was just going to start again, getting Granville stirred
up, getting him involved in the case.

Granville sneaked back to the window and looked at the dancing lights.

No! Carole thought. She was not going to let it happen again. One way or another, she was going to protect her son. Even if
it meant keeping him away from his own father. Just then, she noticed that Granville had strayed back to the forbidden zone.

“Granny!” she said sternly. “I told you to get away from the window.”

And when the boy didn’t move, she took him by the arm and led him back to the center of the room.

The helicopter was aloft again, heading back to Maryland. Inside was the prosecution crew: Gardner, Jennifer, and Brownie.
And their prisoner, cuffed hands and feet, strapped into the jump seat in the rear of the cockpit.

The sun was below the horizon, and the knobby west Pennsylvania hills were turning purple beneath them. The engine was at
max power, and they vibrated and shook with the scream of the turbine.

A coup, Gardner thought. They’d pulled a coup. Swooping down out of the sky they’d snatched their man and escaped. A couple
of well-placed lies had smoothed the way, but now they had Starke in custody, and there was no way he was going to wiggle
out.

Gardner smiled to himself. The law was strange sometimes. If you could get a criminal defendant into the jurisdiction where
he was charged, you could always prosecute him. The courts didn’t care how he got there. You could do almost anything, legal
or illegal, and it didn’t matter. In the county, he was fair game.

The aircraft burbled in an updraft, and Gardner’s head tapped against the window. His thoughts suddenly jumped to Granville.
Carole had no reason to stay away now. He’d begged her mother to send them home as soon as the crisis was over, calling from
Henderson’s office before they’d even left the barracks. Carole was at the house, he was sure, but she wouldn’t come to the
phone. She was still holding out.

Gardner visualized Granville’s face in the window of Carole’s fleeing car, dazed and confused, his stomach aching. Carole
had no right to do this. To keep Granville away. The boy needed to be with his father, now more than ever.

“Look at him.” Brownie’s voice suddenly cracked into the earphones.

Gardner twisted his neck and peered back. IV Starke was slumped against the rear of the cabin with his eyes shut. His face
was serene, and he was asleep.

“Doesn’t seem to have a care in the world,” Brownie said.

Without a headset, Starke couldn’t hear.

“Yeah,” Gardner replied. “He doesn’t seem to be sweating it.” After signing the waiver form, Brownie had gone back for another
try at interrogating, but IV had balked at saying anything. As long as they were going to meet his lawyer, he might as well
wait.

“We still have a problem,” Jennifer whispered into her mike, sneaking a look at Starke to make sure he was still dozing.

“Yeah,” Gardner replied. “They don’t want to turn against each other.” Roscoe was not acknowledging IV, and IV was not acknowledging
Roscoe. Honor among thieves.

“So we try again on the forensics,” Brownie said. “Get some positive proof of them at the scene. And—”

“And Granville…” Gardner interjected, “he can help too…” The copter bounced again, and the prosecutor sucked in his breath.
“Just got to get him back…”

Jennifer looked at Starke. His head lay against the fuselage, and his mouth was open slightly. She tried to imagine him at
the Bowers’, face-to-face with Addie and Henry as Roscoe pulled the trigger.

“State line!” the pilot announced, pointing down.

In seconds they’d crossed over, and IV Starke opened his eyes.

“You’re in Maryland!” Brownie hollered to him.

Starke nodded groggily.

“Welcome home,” Gardner said sarcastically.

Joel Jacobs stood in the cell block area of the Pennsylvania State Police Barracks, and looked at the empty space where his
client had been. Captain Henderson waited beside him in silence. The man had to see for himself. The orders were disobeyed,
and Starke was gone, but the lawyer had to see for himself.

Jacobs put down his briefcase and folded his arms. Henderson still waited in silence, wondering what kind of explosion was
going to erupt from the well-dressed out-of-towner.

The lawyer turned slowly and looked at the trooper. His face was relaxed, and his eyes betrayed no sense at all of what was
going on behind them. “Do you have a copy of the waiver?” he asked. There was no hint of anger.

Henderson said yes, and opened a file he had been carrying under his arm. He handed the paper to the attorney. “Here.”

Jacobs took it, pulled a pair of reading glasses from his breast pocket, and slipped them into place. “Thank you.”

Captain Henderson remained silent and at attention by his side. This was not at all what he had expected. The man had sounded
like a saber-toothed tiger on the telephone. But the real-life creature was a pussycat.

“Did you have the signature witnessed?” Jacobs suddenly asked, raising his glasses so he could see the trooper.

Henderson blanched. “Uh, no. No we didn’t.” He was not aware that the form required it.

“I see,” Jacobs said softly. “And can you tell me if anyone on your staff actually observed my client execute the waiver?”

Again, Henderson was stymied. The form had been signed, duplicated, and filed before they had allowed Starke to leave with
the Marylanders. There was no rule that said the signing had to be done under surveillance. They received a signed waiver,
and that was it.

“Don’t think so,” the captain said.

“I see,” Jacobs repeated. “May I keep this copy?”

Henderson checked his file for a duplicate and nodded yes.

Jacobs picked up his briefcase and walked to the door. Henderson followed him out of the cell block, and then down the long
hall toward the front exit. The lawyer’s gait was slow and even, but the pace was not the product of age. The man was clearly
in shape. His walk echoed his manner. Each step, like each word, was measured and deliberate. He didn’t waste energy. But
inside the lanky body lay an untapped reserve of power.

Captain Henderson followed Jacobs to the front door, and turned to retreat back to his office.

“Captain!” Jacobs was at the exit, but he hadn’t gone through.

Henderson turned around.

“I told you not to let my client go.” The words were soft, but there was a foreboding in the way they were uttered.

Henderson shrugged his shoulders as if to say sorry, and waited for a follow-up.

But Jacobs said nothing. He stared coldly for a moment, then set his shoulders and marched out the door.

It was well past midnight, and Gardner and Jennifer were just now getting to bed. They had secured IV Starke at the detention
center, checked their messages at the office, picked up a bite to eat, and finally dragged themselves back home. It had been
a long twenty-four hours, and they were both exhausted.

Jennifer slipped on her blue silk nightie and crawled in beside Gardner. He cranked his arm around her neck, and let her settle
against his rib cage.