The Vanishing Track (38 page)

Cole's cell phone rang. “Blackwater.”

“It's Nancy. I'm safe and sound.”

“Good. Lock the door, okay?”

“You bet. Don't you have anything besides kid food here?”

“I like kid food,” he said.

“Where are you?”

“Hastings and Carrall.”

“Nice 'hood. Sean's old stomping grounds.”

“Well, he's not around here now. Lane just called and said his old man was missing.”

“You're kidding me!”

“Sean seems to have had a busy night.”

“I'm going to have to make some calls,” said Nancy.

“Can you do it from my place?”

“Yeah. I can.”

“Good. I want you where I can keep an eye on you.”

“Two eyes would be my preference.”

Cole smiled. “Two it is. Listen, it's a little dicey here. I should keep focused.”

“Being careful?”

“Nope. I got a roll of twenties hanging out in my pants.”

“Is that what you call it?”

“Funny.”

“'Cause it seemed more like fives to me.”

“Put a cork in it, Webber.”

“See you soon?”

“About an hour or so.” Cole snapped the phone shut and stuffed it into his pocket. He passed the corner of Carrall and Hastings. A gang of thugs eyed him suspiciously, but he ignored them and walked on. A “new Vancouver” my ass, he thought. Same old Vancouver was more like it, at least in these troubled parts.

Cole made his way between the prostitutes who crowded near Pigeon Park. He looked south toward Shanghai Alley, and at the dark hulk of the Lucky Strike Hotel rising against the pale underbelly of leaking clouds. Sean's old stomping grounds.

Cole stopped in the street. A hooker approached him, thinking his abrupt halt was to inquire after her wares.

He waved her off, and continued to stare south.

“You need somethin', man?” a wiry Hispanic man asked him.

Cole ignored him.

“I'm talking to you, man. You got somethin' in your ears?”

Cole looked down at him. A flash of rage passed over his face and the pimp took a half step back.

Cole turned and dashed across Hastings Street between traffic. He could hear the pimp shout, “You better run, motherfucker,” behind him, but his mind was already a block south, in the catacombs of the Lucky Strike Hotel.

THROUGH THE BROKEN GLASS OF
the windows, Charles Livingstone could smell the rain. If he closed his eyes and focused, he could push the rancid smell of urine, vomit, and feces from his senses, and allow the dark coolness of the evening to penetrate the stench of the room. He recalled a night, many years before, when he and Martha had sat on the porch of their home and watched as a rare electrical storm pulsed across the Lower Mainland. Sean hadn't been born yet, and Martha hadn't descended into the living hell of bipolar disorder—the fancy new terminology for manic depression—and all was still well with the world. They had sat hand in hand on the swing they had hung from the porch roof of their new home.

A harsh spray of rain blew through the broken glass and snapped him back to reality. He opened his eyes. The room was eerily lit by city lights reflecting off the clouds pressing down against the bleakness. He lay facedown, his body surrounded by broken glass and garbage. Used syringes dotted the bare wooden boards of the uneven floor. A pool of rainwater and God knows what else collected under the window.

Some of the liquid is your own blood, thought Charles, and he felt a wave of panic. He struggled to rise and free himself.

“Lay still, Dad,” said Sean's voice from across the tiny room. “You're not going anywhere.”

Charles turned to find the boy's voice. How long had he been back in the room? He had left, hadn't he? He had said that he was hungry, and that he was going out for food, and that he'd be back. How long ago was that? Half an hour?

“Sean, untie me.”

“Fuck you.”

“Sean, please. No matter what you've done, I can help.”

“Fuck you, Dad.”

“Please son, I can help. You know I can. I can get you off. Plead out insanity. Serve a few years in a hospital. You can come home with your mother and me.”

“I don't think so, Dad. Not this time.”

“You'll see. We can do it.”

“You should know that there are cops everywhere,” Sean said, distracted. “I couldn't find a goddamned thing to eat out there. I couldn't get more than a block without running into a fucking pig. But they didn't see me.”

“Sean, listen, we could go home. Adelaide could fix us something . . .” Charles lied.

“Not this time.” Sean got up and walked across the room to where his father lay on the floor. He nudged him with the toe of his shoe.

“Please, Sean, your mother is sick. She needs me. She needs us.”

“You blame me, I know you do.”

“I don't.”

“It's okay. I know you do. I do. I know it. But it's not true. She was fucking batty before I came in the picture. I know she was. You're just too stupid to see it. She's better without us, Dad. Don't sweat it. There's lots of cash. She won't even notice you're gone.”

“That's not true. She needs—”

Sean's foot connected with Charles' face. “Shut the fuck up, Dad. Shut up.” The old man spit blood. “That's all you ever do, talk, talk, talk. You're going to listen to me this one time. I'm the one making the
arrangements
now. You got it?”

Charles nodded, his eyes glazed over.

“You think you're such a big man in town. Making things happen. Making things work out just fine. Well, how'd things work out this time around? Not so good, huh?”

Charles didn't say a thing.

“I asked you a fucking question!” Sean kicked the man again, this time in the stomach. Charles vomited on the floor.

“No,” he managed, when he had spit the last of the vomit onto the floor. “No, not so good.”

“You had it all going on, had the whole thing figured out, didn't you? You and your cronies. But you didn't count on me finding out, did you? Did you? You would have gotten away with your little plans if I hadn't got involved.”

“You got us, Sean. You got us.”

“Taking care of those stupid fucking bums got the whole city looking
this
way. Everybody started snooping around; asking questions. This place became Ground Zero.” Sean paced back and forth in front of his father's body, hands gesturing wildly. Charles watched the tire iron in his son's hand. “And now look at you. Big man. So smart. So connected. Pathetic piece of shit, laying on the floor in your own blood and puke. Look at you now, big man.”

Sean stopped. “Dad, I'm going to show you a little something I learned one of the times that you let me rot in Juvie. It's going to hurt like hell.” Sean bent over and took one of his father's hands in his and pulled a pair of pliers out of this back pocket.

“Did you know that fingernails come off?” he whispered to his father. “They do. Here, let me show you.”

Sean heard a cell phone chime from somewhere beyond the room, in the darkness of the corridor. He stopped and turned his face into the bleak room, listening. The ringing was cut short. Sean stood and ran toward the door.

COLE LOOKED ACROSS
the street at the Lucky Strike Hotel. There were few people out, and next to no cars. He crossed to the front of the hotel. Two police cars drove past, their lights raking the building, and then were gone. Cole ran to the front steps, his leather coat pulled tightly against him in the gale. The double doors were crossed by tattered yellow police tape that swirled in the wind. He pushed his hand against the doors, but they were locked. Now what? Go to the office? Have a drink? Get back to the apartment where a beautiful woman waited for him? Call 911 and who knows what you're going to get, he thought. Let's have a look, and if you find anything, you can ring Marcia Lane directly.

He stepped around the corner of the Lucky Strike, a gust of wind driving rain into his face and battering his coat, in time to see a figure move through the shadows toward the rear of the hotel. Cole's instinct that had led him here also told him the shadow slipping into the Lucky Strike was Sean.

Cole looked quickly around and set off at a jog toward the back of the building. He slowed when he reached the end of the side wall and peered around. A gray service entrance door was flanked by garbage bins he could smell from the corner.

Cole darted for the door and eased it open. He carefully leaned into the darkness in time to see Sean walking down a long hall. The only light in the corridor came from a broken exit sign, its few remaining bulbs throwing a sickly red light down the otherwise unlit hall. Cole closed the door gently behind him and stepped into the passageway. He slipped his cell phone from his pocket and was about to hit redial when he decided he had better follow Sean and find out where he was holding his father, and then retrace his steps and call for help.

Cole followed Sean as he disappeared at the end of the hall. His heart in his throat and his left hand gripping his phone, Cole held out his right arm in the dark, ready to fend off a blow or brace himself if he tripped and fell. In a moment he reached a stairwell without a door and stopped to listen. Despite the wind he could hear above him Sean's footfalls against the bare wooden boards. Sean was humming softly to himself. From somewhere higher above a narrow shaft of pale light entered the stairwell. Sean's figure cast a shadow every time he ascended the set of stairs on the eastern wall.

Cole began to climb quietly, pausing to listen for any change in Sean's pace, trying to keep track of how many times the long shadow loomed. After what seemed like an eternity, Sean's footsteps on the stairs stopped, and Cole guessed that he was on the sixth floor. Cole hurried up the last three flights, trying to quiet his heavy breathing in the cold, damp air. Faintly, Cole could hear the sound of voices, of shuffling or a heavy blow.

Maybe his plan hadn't been the wisest. Maybe in delaying he had given Sean time to do damage. He flipped open his phone, scrolled down the list of recent calls, and hit Send.

“Lane,” came a tired voice.

“It's Cole Blackwater,” whispered Cole.

“Mr. Blackwater? I can hardly hear you.”

“I've found Sean.”

“What?”

“I've found Sean. I had a hunch. I found him.”

“Where are you?”

“I'm at the Lucky Strike Hotel. Sixth floor.”

“Hold the line. If I lose you I'll call you right back.”

Cole was about to say
no, don't
, but Marcia Lane had already put him on hold.

Cole heard a heavy sound come from a room down the hall. The phone at his ear went dead. Leaving it on to avoid the shutting-down chime, he snapped it shut and put it on the floor. He edged out of the stairwell, and crouching low, made his way toward the sounds.

He heard someone yell, then Sean's voice. “You would have got away with your little plans if I hadn't got involved. You would have gotten away with it.”

Cole reached the door and crouched down, his hands balled into fists. It would take at least five minutes for the first cops to arrive and make it to the sixth floor, and by then Charles Livingstone might be dead. The best chance was to take Sean by surprise. Cole closed his eyes a moment to visualize what he had to do. Wait until the sound of Sean's voice revealed that his back was to the door and then rush him; take him out with a heavy blow to the back of the neck. Try not to kill him, Cole thought to himself, but if he did . . . 

Cole counted in his head. One . . . Two . . . 

And then his cell phone in the stairwell rang.

Cole froze. He knew it was Marcia Lane, but he had hoped he would get to Sean before she called back.

Sean came barreling out of the room, his right hand gripping a tire iron. Cole didn't hesitate. He charged into the man, his head connecting with his sternum, and drove him back fifteen feet until they both collapsed on the floor of the hall. Cole pressed his advantage, driving his right fist into Sean's startled face with two quick jabs, mashing his already broken nose and blackening his eye. Sean recovered quickly from the surprise, staying cool, and drove his knee up into Cole's tailbone. Cole winced in pain. He tried to adjust himself to protect his groin, and Sean swung at him with the tire iron. Cole blocked most of the blow with his left shoulder. Sean swung again and Cole was forced to roll away, using the momentum to stand.

Cole stepped back, sensing the wall behind him in the darkness of the corridor. Though Sean was less than ten feet away, Cole could barely see him in the gloom. He drew a deep breath and let it out slowly, focusing on the man before him. Sean had a stream of blood running down his face, over his mouth and onto his clothes. He wiped at it with the back of his hand and Cole thought he saw the flash of a smile.

“Why don't we talk this through?” Sean said, stepping toward Cole, glass breaking under his feet. “See . . .” he said, spitting a thick rope of blood onto the floor, “my old man there is the lawyer to a big developer. You and me, we're on the same side. We should be working him over together, not scrapping with each other. What do you say?” He took another step closer, the tire iron dangling at his side.

Cole could see his eyes now, dark and flat.

“Come on, man, you and me, and maybe that other lawyer friend of yours, we should be partners. We could work together, put a stop to the builders, put them in their place. What do you say?” Sean asked, and as he did he lunged for Cole, swinging the tire iron in a neat arc at Blackwater's head. Cole pivoted to sidestep the blow, and as Sean's arm cut through the air, Cole grabbed it a few inches above the wrist. Cole drove his open left palm into Sean's elbow. The joint broke with an audible snap. Sean's right arm went limp, and the tire iron clattered to the ground. Cole balled his hand into a fist and drove it into the soft flesh of Sean's ear. He stepped back as Sean fell to the ground.