Since You've Been Gone (40 page)

The park lights were on, drawing moths. Lights glowed in the bandstand. High above the crowd stood the players in uniform, sending a merry rendition of “The Band Played On” into the night. Each summer they added one new song. One. Rebecca wondered what this summer's selection would be. But the Sinclair devotees never seemed to mind. The concerts were a meeting place where they could bring children, listen to fairly good renditions of old classics, and have soft drinks and lemonade on pretty summer nights. They had always been enjoyable for Rebecca.

Until tonight. Now there seemed to be too many people. The music was too loud. The lights were too bright, shining on her face, which she wanted to keep hidden. Her heart was going like a trip-hammer. Her bug spray wasn't working. She slapped at a mosquito biting her shoulder, then realized her shirt covered it. Nerves were making her itch. Great. A nervous rash on top of everything else.

Rebecca sauntered toward the refreshment stand and bought a lemonade. Then she walked nearer the bandstand. Children ran past her. She spotted Helen and Edgar More-land and quickly ducked her head. All she needed was Edgar Moreland booming out her name. She sucked down the lemonade in less than a minute, her throat dry from tension. She wanted more, but returning to the refreshment stand so quickly might call attention. This undercover stuff was tough, she thought. It made you self-conscious of every movement.

The band finished to happy applause then launched into “A Bicycle Built for Two.” Rebecca thought of Cory Ellis's Megadeth T-shirt and smiled. He'd be as likely to attend one of these concerts as he would be to spend an evening at the library.

Slowly she walked away from the bandstand toward the white-painted, concrete-block building housing the rest rooms. She was on the men's side and suddenly saw Clay emerging. Rebecca jerked her head the other way, then rebuked
herself. Hardly a nonchalant movement. But what had taken him so long to place the money? He'd had to wait until the rest room was empty, of course. He was careful. He was calm. She must be, too.

Rebecca strolled the brick paths through one of the rose gardens, but all the beautiful blooms were lost on her. She returned to the refreshment stand for another lemonade and tried to pace herself, but she felt as if she were going to die of thirst. This waiting and hiding in plain sight was driving her mad. The band plowed on with “Ciribiribin.” People were now a mass of blurry faces to Rebecca. She neared the rest rooms again. This time she saw Clay leaning against a tree talking to a pretty young woman. She blazed inwardly. Of all times to be flirting! Then she noticed his eyes continually straying toward the door of the men's room. Certainly he couldn't just stand and stare at it. The woman was a convenience. Rebecca felt impatient with herself that she'd even cared if he was flirting. She also felt better that he wasn't.

By ten-thirty the band had rocked through “Home on the Range,” “Au Claire de la Lune,” “Oh, Susannah,” and “Funiculi, Funicula.” Exhausted by mental strain, Rebecca sat down on a bench about thirty feet from the men's room and angled slightly away from it. She was on her fourth lemonade. She wished it was a margarita with a double shot of tequila.

She didn't know what she had expected of tonight, but it wasn't this
nothingness.
She was too influenced by books and television. She'd expected a burst of action, but all she could do was wait and sip her lemonade.

“This town is turning into Murder Central,” Burt, the bartender at The Gold Key, said to Larry Cochran after watching the latest reports on the murder of Matilda Vinson on the fifteen-inch television suspended above the bar. “First
Skeeter, then Miss Vinson. And there was that attack on Sonia Ellis. Poor kid. Just a teenager.”

“Two more minutes and that girl would have been a bloody pulp. That's what I heard,” a beefy man sitting beside Larry stated to the room at large. He had gigantic arms covered with garish tattoos, a shaven scalp, one gold front tooth, and the tiny mean eyes of a boar. “Pretty little teenager. Choice meat.” He sneered. “'Course that redhead that saved her isn't bad either.”

“Know both of 'em well, do you, Densh?” the bartender asked with a careful smile.

“Know every good-lookin' woman in this town, Burt,” Densh boomed. “Had most of 'em, too, if you get my drift.”

“Subtle as it was,” mumbled a thin, dark-haired man in a booth directly behind Densh.

Densh whirled on him. “What's that, wimp? You callin' me a liar?” He pronounced the word “lar.” “'Cause I don't put up with nobody callin' me a liar.”

“I was merely talking to myself,” the young man said.

“So you're just a nut, that it? Talkin' to yourself like a damned lunatic? You try in' to take over for Skeeter Dobbs?”

“I didn't mean anything.”

“The hell you didn't. But you're just jealous. You don't look like you ever had a woman in your life, much less scored like I have. Had my first when I was nine.” The bartender rolled his eyes and a few patrons smiled mockingly, but Densh was focused on his dark-haired victim. “What's your name, wimp?” The young man continued to stare into his beer. “I said, what's your
name?”

“Alvin.”

“Alvin!” Densh guffawed. “Now there's a helluva name. Damned
manly
name, that is. Alvin
what?”

“Tanner.”

Larry Cochran's head shot up. “Alvin Tanner,” Densh repeated. “Sounds kinda familiar to me. I know you?”

“I don't believe so. No, certainly not.”

“Whattaya mean, certainly not? You mean you wouldn't have nothin' to do with the likes of me?”

“Hey, Densh, leave him alone,” Larry Cochran intervened.

Densh glared down the bar at Larry. “And what's he to you?”

“Nothing. I'm just trying to think and you're making it hard.”

“Oh, you're
thinkin' “
Densh looked around. “Hey everybody, the ex-con is try in' to
think.
Whatcha got on your mind, Cochran? Computers? Brain surgery? The meanin' of life?”

Larry suddenly looked angry. “Just give it a rest, Densh. Leave me alone. And leave Tanner alone.”

“Who's Tanner?”

“The guy whose name you asked two minutes ago, genius. He's minding his own business. Why don't you give it a try?”

Densh surged off the bar stool. “Why, you son of a bitch! I'll break you in half. I'll tear off that bad leg. I'll make you scream like the stupid pig you are, you … you … you stupid pig!”

Burt nodded at a man taller and even more muscular than Densh, about ten years younger, and incredibly handsome except for a pair of soulless green eyes. He approached Densh slowly, his chiseled lips stretched in a smile. “Think you've had your limit, Densh,” he said pleasantly. “Why don't you go home to the little woman?”

“And why don't you shut your mouth?” Densh roared.

Larry knew the bouncer's name was Strand: He'd had his own run-ins with the guy, who was one mean specimen, pumped up on steroids physically and mentally. Strand took Densh's right arm, twisted it until Densh yelled, then dragged him toward the door.

“I said to go home,” Strand said above Densh's bawling. “Give your little woman the thrill of her life in bed.”

“In his dreams,” Larry muttered.

Densh tried to whirl on Larry, but Strand pinned his
arms. Suddenly Strand had the front door open and Densh was standing on the sidewalk, reeling. Strand slammed the door.

“Nice going, Cochran,” Strand snarled as he passed Larry. “Never know when to shut up, do you?”

“Go to hell,” Larry snapped, then turned hurriedly back to his scotch when Strand looked like he was going to punch him. After Strand moved on, Larry climbed off his bar stool. The pain in his leg had been worse for days. His limp was more pronounced and lines of pain dug into his forehead. He scooted into Alvin's booth. “Bad news, that Densh,” he said.

Alvin glowered at him from behind his glasses. “You didn't have to come to my defense. I could have taken care of myself.”

“Oh really?” Larry had expected gratitude. “And how would you have taken care of yourself?”

“Reasoned with him.”

Larry threw back his head and laughed. “Oh sure. Reason is
very
big with guys like Densh.”

“You made me look like a fool,” Alvin accused.

By now Larry was growing furious with the skinny twerp who didn't appreciate being saved. “I didn't have to make you
look
like a fool. You
are
a fool if you think you could have handled Densh.” Then he squinted. “You're Slim Tanner's boy.”

Alarm flashed in Alvin's eyes. “What if I am? Did you know her?”

“I know she knifed your old man to death right outside this bar. Saved your life. But she suffered just like I did thanks to that bitch Rebecca Ryan.”

“I don't know Rebecca Ryan,” Alvin said stiffly.

“You know who she is. She sent your mom
and
me to the penitentiary. She tried to wreck my life, but she's got a surprise coming.” Larry was starting to slur. “She's got herself one
big
surprise coming.”

“Please get out of my booth.”

“‘Please get out of my booth,'” Larry imitated in a
prissy voice. “What the hell's the matter with you?”

“Thank you for helping me with Mr. Densh, but I'd like to be alone now. Please move.”

“My pleasure, asshole,” Larry sneered. “I should have let Densh kill you, but you don't look like you've got the balls your mother had.” His eyes narrowed as he lurched from the booth. “What are you doing here, anyway? Dredging up fond memories?”

Alvin's face flamed. Dear God, what
was
he doing in this hellhole? Remembering, that's what he was doing. Remembering the times his mother had sent him, a little boy, here to look for his father. Remembering his father full of sloppy, drunken gaiety, holding him up so he could play the pinball machines and saying he was smart as a whip. Remembering the young waitress who clung to his father and sweetly called Alvin “Little Man.” Remembering a big man like Densh who'd called Slim a whore, been punched by Alvin's father, and later been accused of killing Earl Tanner. Remembering creeping back here two days after his father's murder to see the bloodstain on the concrete in the alley.

Today had been one of the worst days of Alvin's life. But he had to hang on. Soon it would all be over.

It was eleven-twenty. The band had stopped promptly at eleven. The park was emptying. By now Rebecca and Clay had given up avoiding each other. Clay had joined her on a bench ten minutes ago. He sat over a foot away from her and acted as if they weren't together. They had a view of the men's room door, but neither looked directly at it. Rebecca looked at her hands. Clay looked at the sky.

“When you were about fifteen, you told me a story about a constellation, Stargazer,” Clay said suddenly. “Something about bears. I can't remember it. Tell me again.”

He was losing hope, trying to take up time, but Rebecca
obliged his effort. “Lycaon, a king of Arcadia, served Zeus human flesh so Zeus changed him into a wolf in retaliation. But Zeus didn't stop there. Lycaon had a daughter named Callisto. Zeus fell in love with her—”

“Zeus fell in love with every woman.”

“True. He was a cad. Anyway, Hera got mad and turned her into a bear. It was her intent to have Callisto's son Areas kill her, thinking she was an ordinary bear. But Zeus got wind of Hera's plan and put Callisto in the sky where she'd be safe. She's known as the constellation the Great Bear. Later Callisto's son Areas was also put in the sky as a constellation. He's known as the Lesser Bear. But Hera wouldn't let matters rest, infuriated, she talked the God of the Sea into not letting the Bears sink into the ocean like the other stars. So the Bears are the only constellations that never get to descend below the horizon.” She paused. “What made you think of that story?”

“Molly and Todd. Mama and Baby Bear. Wouldn't it be wonderful if they were both safe up there in the sky?”

Rebecca was touched, both by his remembrance of the story and the sentiment it had aroused in him. “They had a powerful protector in Zeus.”

“Todd and Molly have you.”

“Not quite the same,” Rebecca said dryly.

“I'd put my money on you rather than Zeus anytime.” Clay continued to stare at the sky. “You, of course, can pick out Mama and Baby Bear.”

“Yes. Right up there.”

Clay looked intently, then said, “I've never been able to pick out constellations.”

“Maybe you're just too impatient.” Rebecca fell silent. Finally she asked, “Do you think this guy is going to pick up the money?”

“He may have already.”

“Should you go back in the men's room and check?”

“No. If he's watching, I might scare him off.” Still not looking at her, Clay said, “As a matter of fact, I think we
should leave now. For all we know, he's been watching us all along.”.

“But if he goes in—”

“And comes out waving the money triumphantly we'll jump him? Rebecca, he'll tuck away the money. We won't know if he has it or not.”

“Then why were we out here?”

“To see if someone familiar came out of that rest room at the right time, someone that could have taken Jonnie, too. After all, no kidnapper would leave five hundred thousand dollars in a public restroom all night.”

She sighed. “The park is almost empty. We're beginning to look conspicuous.”

“Then we have to go home,” Clay said. She finally looked at him. “Face it, Rebecca. We won't know if we have a chance of getting Todd back until tomorrow.”

“One more scotch,” Larry told the bartender.