Thursday's Child (24 page)

Keeping to the darkest edge of the lot, he started moving toward the newly arrived car. One part of him wondered if maybe he should do something to warn Boyd, but hadn't he already tried to do that? Boyd thought he could take care of himself, fine. Gar's only job was to find Beau Epstein.

He was willing to bet that the slouched-down figure in the passenger seat was the missing boy.

Finally, he reached the car from the rear and peered in. Beau—if it was actually him—was staring straight ahead, both hands over his ears. Assuming that the door was unlocked, Gar figured that he could reach in, grab the boy, and be gone before—

His silent planning got no further, because all of a sudden there was the unmistakable feeling of cold, hard metal being pressed against the back of his head.

“Move, motherfucker, and you're dead.” The voice was quiet, almost gentle, and for that reason all the more threatening.

“Okay,” Gar said. “I'm not armed. All I want is the kid. That's Beau Epstein in there, right?”

“Shut up,” the voice said.

Gar realized that the boy in the car had turned around and was watching them. He couldn't get a good look at the face, but he was even more sure now that it was Beau.

The boy shook his head, not at him, but at whomever it was with the gun.

Gar thought he heard the man sigh, then, abruptly, his cane was kicked out from underneath him. He lost his balance and almost fell flat, catching himself at the last minute on the car. It was a hell of a time to be embarrassed, but he could feel heat flooding his face.

“Without looking back,” the quiet voice said, “I want you to walk away. One glance back and you're dead. Is that clear?”

“Very clear.”

“I'm glad. Now move.”

He did as ordered, leaving the cane where it was, and moving slowly. Just as he finally reached the end of the lot, he heard the other car drive away quickly. Stumbling as he went, Gar finally made it to his own car, and managed to be after them in only a moment. It wasn't clear what he planned to do if he caught them, but having come this close, he just couldn't let them get away without doing something.

The Saab ahead of him turned off onto a side street. Gar, remembering a shortcut, headed through an alley in pursuit, punching the accelerator.

The plan worked perfectly. Sort of. His car collided with the Saab at the end of the alley.

His car did a slow bounce off the other and then died. The Saab, meanwhile, faltered, did a sort of half-spin as if the driver had lost control momentarily, and then took off.

All he could do was sit and watch it go.

And wish to hell he'd noticed the license number.

Saul Epstein took a gulp of his brandy. “You actually saw my grandson. Is that what you're telling me?”

“Yes. I'm sure the boy I saw was Beau.”

“But you didn't get him.”

“Not yet.”

Epstein was quiet for a minute. “And you believe that he is actually in the company of this killer willingly?”

Gar shrugged. “It's hard to say. All I know for sure is, he was sitting in the car alone. He made no attempt to escape. Of course, for all I know, he might have been tied up. Or drugged. Whatever.”

Epstein nodded and sipped more brandy. “Perhaps I should start to make some arrangements for Beau's return.”

“Arrangements?” What was he going to do? Throw the kid a “Welcome Home” party?

Epstein set his snifter down decisively. “I want to have a doctor on hand. A psychiatrist. To offer help. And also to prepare the groundwork for a legal defense, if that should prove necessary.”

Gar was reminded suddenly that he was dealing not only with a distraught grandfather, but also with a very powerful man. A man who knew how to pull all of the strings to get what he wanted. Under normal circumstances, it was the kind of abuse of privilege that would annoy him. But in this case, he wanted whatever it took for Beau to come out of this safe and whole. “Maybe you should do that,” he said.

He downed the rest of his brandy and then finally went home. As promised, Mickey was waiting and they finished the anniversary celebration.

He kept one ear attuned to the phone, just in case.

19

1

Beau couldn't seem to stop shaking. And he was afraid that any minute he was going to throw up all over the car. Robert, meanwhile, just kept driving, swearing, and muttering under his breath. Already an enormous bruise was visible where his forehead had hit the steering wheel in the collision. He hadn't really blacked out, but he drove like a man half-drunk or something.

Beau swallowed hard, tasting bile and fear.

The car stopped at a red light.

“Can we go home now, Robbie?” Beau asked softly.

Robert glared at him. “What're you? Dumb or something? No, we can't go home now. That guy saw the car, which means he maybe got the license number. Right this minute, the cops are probably camping on my front porch. I figure that asshole with the cane was the detective your fucking grandfather hired. You beginning to get the picture here, dummy? No, Beau, we can't go home now.” He made a sharp left turn, causing several other motorists to blow their horns angrily, which he ignored or maybe even didn't hear. “In fact, I can probably never go home again.”

“I'm sorry,” Beau said. “This is all my fault, isn't it?”

“Damned right it is.”

Beau shut up then, figuring that Robert was only going to get mad at anything he said, so it was better to say nothing. If he was lucky, Robert wouldn't push him out of the car here in the middle of Sunset Boulevard.

They rode around for nearly another hour in silence, before Robert finally pulled into the parking lot of a run-down motel in a neighborhood Beau didn't know at all. Robert drove way around to the back so that the car couldn't be seen from the street and turned the engine off. Then he leaned back against the seat with a sigh. “Christ, my head is killing me.” He poked at his right side carefully. “And I think I must have bruised a rib or something.”

Beau didn't say anything.

Robert glanced at him. “You all right?”

“Yeah. My seat belt was fastened.”

“That's terrific.” Robert pushed and shoved at the smashed-in door until, with a grinding noise, it opened slowly. “Well, you just sit here all safe and sound and seat-belted, while I go get us a room.”

“Okay, Robbie.”

He could see into the motel office as Robert, moving slowly and carefully, went inside and talked briefly to the old man behind the counter. The man handed Robert a key and pointed. Then Robert stepped back outside and waved at Beau. Unsnapping the seat belt, Beau got out of the car and followed Robert up a flight of stairs.

Outside room 203, Robert handed him the key. “Open the damned door, will you?” he said in a hoarse voice.

Beau hurried to do so and they stepped inside. Robert leaned against the wall immediately, his eyes closed. Beau switched on the light and stared at his pale, sweaty face. “Robbie? You don't look so good.”

“I don't feel so good either, Tonto,” Robert said. With that, he pitched forward and landed on the floor, out cold.

Beau, stunned, just stared at him for several seconds. Then he finally went into action. He managed to haul Robert's dead weight up onto the bed. Once that was accomplished, he removed the unconscious man's shoes and socks. It took more of an effort to slip him out of his jacket and, carefully, the holster and gun. He unbuttoned Robert's shirt and opened it to look at the bruised stomach. Guilt flashed through him; it
was
all his fault, and he couldn't blame Robert for being mad. He couldn't even blame Robert if he kicked him out as soon as he woke up. He watched to be sure that Robert's chest was moving up and down steadily, which he figured was a very good sign. Not like when his parents were shot. He could still remember crawling out from under the wagon where he and his friends had been hiding during the attack, crawling out, and running to Rachel and Jonathan's bodies. It was the terrible
stillness
he would never forget. Death was so still.

When he was absolutely sure that Robert was breathing okay, Beau went into the bathroom. He ran some cold water over a skimpy washcloth, squeezed it out, sort of, and took it back to the bed. Robert didn't move as he plastered the cloth to his forehead. That seemed to be the best he could do at the moment.

He perched gingerly on the edge of the bed, staring hard at Robert's face.

Next door, a man and a woman were having a very loud argument in Spanish. Beau half-listened to the fight, which seemed to be about the equal division of some coke, at least when it started, but then got sidetracked onto their sexual preferences.

Pretty soon, they started screwing, which was just as noisy as the fighting had been.

It seemed to be a very long time before Robert finally stirred and then slowly opened his eyes, which looked blankly at Beau. He leaned down close. “Robbie? You okay?”

Robert blinked a couple of times and recognition came into his gaze. “Yeah. I guess. Shit.” He struggled to sit up. The washcloth fell to the bed.

Beau picked it up and twisted it nervously. “Maybe we better call a doctor or something, huh?”

Robert gave him another one of those Jesus-how-can-you-be-so-stupid? looks. “I
don't
think so,” he said. Then he flinched. “Christ, my head is still hurting.”

“You probably got like a concussion or something.”

“I'll be okay.”

Beau sat down again carefully. “I'm really sorry. If it wasn't for me, this wouldn't have happened. You must be really mad at me.”

Robert rested back against the shaky headboard. “No, Tonto, I'm not mad,” he said wearily. “Actually, it should be the other way around. I think you're probably in the deep shit right along with me now. I should have let that damned detective take you.”

Beau folded and unfolded the damp cloth. “I'm glad you didn't kill him, Robbie.”

“Yeah, well, I'll probably live to regret that. Shit, I regret it already. But the paper said the guy was an ex-cop. I already got enough people pissed at me. But I should have let him take you.”

Beau didn't say anything.

Robert sighed. “But since I didn't do that, and you're still here, you might as well be useful. Go out and find me some fucking aspirin or something. And coffee, black coffee. There should be someplace across the street.”

“Okay.”

“You have money?”

“Yeah.”

Robert looked at him for a moment. “Be careful.”

Beau wondered if maybe Robert thought he wouldn't come back. “I'll be careful,” he said. “And I won't be long.”

“Right.”

Beau got to the door and then paused. “You stay right there in that damned bed,” he ordered.

“Sure thing, tough guy.” Robert tried to smile, but it came out as more of a grimace.

Beau made sure to lock the door as he left.

He walked nearly two blocks before finding an all-night drugstore, where he picked up some extra-strength painkillers and an ice bag. Then, on the way back to the motel, he hit a McDonald's and ordered the coffee, along with fries and two Big Macs. And two hot apple pies.

While he was waiting for the food, he watched two cops who were in a booth having supper. Amazingly, he wasn't scared of them anymore. He didn't know whether that was because he was really getting braver, like Robert was, or whether it was simply that a person could only get so afraid before it just sort of leveled off. Maybe he was merely too tired to be scared.

Whatever.

Beau wondered idly what would happen if he just walked over to those cops, told them who he was, and that he'd been kidnapped. He'd probably be a freaking hero or something.

Not that he would ever do such a thing, of course. How could he just abandon Robert, who was counting on him? It was sort of an interesting sensation, feeling needed. Beau had never felt that way before. His folks loved him, sure, but they hadn't
needed
him. And Saul, who owned the whole damned world, it seemed like, certainly didn't need him. Didn't want him, either. All Saul wanted was to have Jonathan back again.

But Robbie needed him.

He grabbed the bag of food, averted his face from the cops as he passed them, and left the restaurant.

2

Robert heard the key turn in the lock, but he couldn't quite summon up the strength to sit up or even open his eyes immediately.

So the kid had come back. He didn't know whether to be relieved or dismayed.

“Robbie?” Beau whispered.

“I'm awake,” he said.

“I got you some pills. And the coffee you wanted.”

“Okay.” Robert gritted his teeth and managed to sit up. Beau was standing by the bed, holding several capsules in one hand and a cardboard cup filled with coffee in the other. Robert took them from him, swallowing all four capsules at once.

Beau sat at the small table and opened a bag. “I got some food, too, if you're hungry.”

Robert wasn't, but he thought that maybe getting something into his stomach would help. He waved off Beau's offer of assistance and got himself over to the table. Beau was already eating enthusiastically. Robert nibbled on a couple of fries and took a small bite of the burger. As he chewed carefully, he was aware of Beau watching him with a frown. “We'll be okay,” Robert said.

“Sure we will.” Beau smiled and ate quietly for a moment. “Robbie,” he said then, “did you get him? Boyd, I mean?”

“No, damn it. I would have. It was a fucking perfect setup. He comes out of the game, I off him. Nobody else in the game cares. Perfect. But because that asshole detective showed up, it didn't happen.”

“So what now?”

After forcing down one more bite, Robert pushed the hamburger aside. “I'm going to bed,” he said. “We'll figure all of this out in the morning.”