by James Tucker
Caution told him to approach each doorway methodically, that the lamp switched on in one of the rooms might be a decoy or a distraction and he’d be a moth to the flame. But instinct told him he was out of time. He’d either get to Ben in the next few seconds, or be too late. Caution wouldn’t work. Holding his breath, he steadied the Glock and went for the doorway with the yellow light.
But he didn’t step inside. His training held him back. He stood against the wall by the doorway. He dipped his head into the space.
He saw a desk lamp that lit two figures on the bed, one of them Ben and the other Vidas. Vidas was dressed entirely in black and wore black gloves. Ben was lying on his back, his head on a pillow. In the instant of his glance, Buddy had seen no weapon, though he was certain there were many. From his vantage point twenty feet away—it was a large bedroom—the figures provided a blended target. If he fired he’d probably hit Vidas, but then again he might hit Ben. He didn’t have a shot. He wouldn’t make that mistake twice.
As he stood there, he heard Ben talking, or at least whispering. He bobbed his head into the doorway a second time.
Vidas was moving closer to Ben, trying to catch what the boy was saying.
Now Buddy knew he couldn’t shoot. Vidas had brought his head and shoulders over Ben. Buddy had planned to charge into the room, but what if Vidas picked up Ben and hid behind him with a knife to the boy’s throat?
Again he bobbed his head into the doorway, this time more slowly. He paused, watching the large man and the small boy in the grayness, just outside the golden halo spread by the desk lamp. He held his breath, listening for Ben’s words, yet he couldn’t quite hear them.
“You’re going to die.” This was his partner’s voice—strong, calm, clear. “Just like your mommy and daddy and your little sister. She was the best of all. In a little party dress for New Year’s Eve. Until I put my hatchet between her ears. Nice little girl, but you’ll top her. And who’ll be blamed for your death? Your uncle, of course,” he sneered. “Just like he’s to blame for everyone else’s. Wasn’t hard to do. A push here and there. I lifted your uncle Dietrich’s prints from a glass at a restaurant and pasted them into the elevator at Mei’s building,” he bragged. “Could have put them in Mei’s bedroom, but that would have been too obvious. Fired your uncle Carl’s antique gun in Bruno’s foyer. Left one of your uncle Dietrich’s contact lenses at Carl’s house. And my moron partner will never figure it out. I moved him around like a piece on a chessboard.”
Ben shrunk away from him.
“Yes, little Ben,” the man above him snarled, “one by one all the Brooks will die, out of prison or in prison, it doesn’t matter, so long as you’re all gone. And when I walk out of here today, I’m taking some paintings. They’re mine, you know that, don’t you? They’re mine. You and your shit family murdered my family, and now I’m paying you back. An eye for a fucking eye.”
Ben continued to whisper, but he also shrank from Vidas. Attempted to move across the bed, away from the figure in black.
As Ben tried to slide his body, his head tilted back. Buddy thought it was involuntary but it wasn’t. Ben’s eyes were open and he was looking right at Buddy.
Buddy read the look, and nodded.
And then the whispering ceased.
Ben jerked his head upward like hammer, driving his forehead into Vidas’s face, up into his nose.
Vidas lurched off the bed. He screamed. He brought one hand up to his newly crooked and bloody nose. His other hand held a hatchet.
Rising to his full height, he lifted the hatchet, whose blade glimmered in the light. Vidas said nothing else. He didn’t hesitate.
But neither did Buddy.
When Buddy saw the hatchet raised for the fatal blow, he knew he’d have to go for the headshot. A bullet to the chest or stomach or leg wouldn’t stop Vidas, who was likely wearing body armor. Even if his partner fell, gravity would pull the blade down until it was stopped by something soft or solid. He knew it would kill Ben. He had to take the risk of all risks.
Buddy planted his left foot and swung his right one hundred eighty degrees until he was centered in the bedroom doorway. He held his breath, didn’t blink, aimed carefully, pressed gently on the trigger of the Glock. Once, twice.
Crack! Crack!
A burst of sound in the silent bedroom.
Brains and skull sprayed onto the walls.
Vidas stared at Buddy, his eyes vacant, a gaping hole in his forehead. He toppled, the weight of the hatchet he’d raised pulling him backward like a diver going off a board. He dropped almost soundlessly to the floor, the blade making a dull thump.
Ben screamed louder than ever before. “Buddy! Help me! Help me! ”
Buddy ignored the boy.
He charged into the room, circled the bed, Glock steady in both hands, and came upon his partner lying on his back with blood bubbling from his forehead, the hatchet on the floor beyond. Buddy felt his partner’s neck.
A faint pulse.
Unbelievable.
Buddy moved between the bed and the figure on the floor. Ben had seen enough—he didn’t need to see this.
Buddy aimed at his partner’s forehead. He wanted to fire again, to be sure, but he waited. He slowed his breathing, counted to five. Then he let go of the gun with his left hand and again felt for a pulse.
This time there was nothing. It was over.
He shoved the Glock into his shoulder holster and turned to Ben.
Who was sobbing uncontrollably.
Buddy saw why the boy had used the head butt. He was trussed like an animal, crudely and so tightly the rope was digging into the boy’s arms and legs, swelling them, turning his hands blue. He also saw Ben’s leg. Blood had soaked through the khakis and stained the duvet cover. Buddy noticed his face. More pale than he’d ever seen it.
Jesus.
How much blood had Ben lost?
He heard sirens. More than one.
He lifted the knife off the floor and cut the rope, freeing Ben.
Ben reached for him but couldn’t sit up, instead falling back onto the bed, lying in a daze, quiet and distressingly still.
Buddy said, “Stay with me. Please stay with me, Ben. Don’t leave me now.”
Chapter One Hundred Three
Three days later Buddy sat in an aisle seat in the second row of a courtroom. He’d come down to New York County Family Court on Lafayette Street in lower Manhattan. He saw the blond wood behind and in front of the judge’s bench, maple pews and wainscoting and white walls—all the décor an attempt to make the ugly things that happened here seem pleasant. Though Buddy didn’t want to be in this place, he had no choice. But at least he wasn’t alone.
To his right was Mei, one wrist sprained but not broken, and to her right, Ward. To Buddy’s left, partly blocking the aisle, he’d positioned Ben’s wheelchair. Ben sat with his right leg wrapped in thick bandages, the chair’s hanger adjusted to support the leg extending outward. His typically bright eyes dulled by painkillers, he held tightly to Buddy’s hand. He’d been in the hospital all weekend, and Buddy and Mei hadn’t left his side.
Buddy listened to Robert Kahler, the lawyer for Dietrich Brook, argue before Judge Sylvia Miles, a middle-aged woman whose dark hair was streaked with gray. Kahler wore a solid navy-blue suit, white shirt, light-blue tie. His silver, wire-rimmed eyeglasses reflected the overhead lights. Before Kahler spoke, he turned around and nodded silently at the first two rows on the other side of the room. There sat Dietrich, Lydia, and Hayley Brook, all conservatively dressed.
Without using notes Kahler said, “Ben Brook is a wonderful boy who should be living not with the esteemed older gentleman, Ray Sawyer, but with his aunt, uncle, and cousin, all of whom adore him.”
Buddy looked over at Ben, who was slowly shaking his head.
Kahler continued, “And Mr. Sawyer’s recent loss of his wife in tragic circumstances will make it impossible for him to provide the kind of warm and supportive family envir
onment a ten-year-old boy needs.”
As Ray Sawyer was sitting directly in front of him, Buddy couldn’t see the older man’s face. But Sawyer’s body wasn’t straight. He was hunched over his table, writing. Today he wore the same clothes as when he’d greeted Buddy and Ward at Camp Kateri the first week of January: dress trousers and a tweed sport coat.
Kahler stood at the lectern and raised a hand. “And finally, there has been some discussion recently that Detective Cyrus Edward Lock, with the New York City Police Department, and his girlfriend, Mei Adams, who live together, should take custody of my clients’ nephew. This option should not be considered for one moment. Mr. Lock and Miss Adams have been dating for less than a year, and during the week they’ve had custody of Ben, there have been three—three, Your Honor—attempts on Ben’s life. Fortunately all were unsuccessful, although the poor boy has suffered a major knife wound to one of his legs in addition to possible psychological trauma. If only, Your Honor, Ben had been with his uncle Dietrich over the past week, he would not have endured such harrowing experiences.” Here, Kahler waved his hand to the side as if brushing away a fly.
Buddy was growing angrier by the second. He wanted to shout: Ben’s uncles couldn’t protect him at Camp Kateri, could they? And if he’d gone to live with Dietrich, then surely he’d be dead today!
But he kept his mouth clamped shut, though he felt his face warm with his temper.
“Even if Detective Lock and Miss Adams have pure motives,” Kahler continued, “they certainly know that custody of Ben might lead to gaining control of his parents’ trust of which he is sole beneficiary. You’ll recall the value of that trust is approximately six billion dollars, with the paintings he’s recently inherited being worth about a half billion dollars more.” Kahler, after glancing slyly at Buddy and Mei, added, “This is an enormous amount of money to anyone, of course, but it couldn’t be a consideration for my clients, who are already billionaires several times over.”
Mei turned to Buddy, her face etched with worry lines, and whispered, “What about control of Brook Instruments? That’s what they really want.”
Buddy tried to reassure her. “Sawyer’s time will come.”
Kahler added, “And of course I needn’t mention that Detective Lock’s partner turned out to be a serial killer, with Detective Lock betraying Ben’s whereabouts at every turn, and Detective Lock always ignorant of the truth.”
Buddy gritted his teeth, determined to hide his emotions even as he raged inside, angry with himself, furious with Kahler. Mei reached over and touched the back of his hand, soothing him.
Kahler concluded, “So my clients submit to this court that it is in the best interests of Ben Brook to rejoin his family, to have daily interaction with his aunt, uncle, and cousin, to have their support and love as he becomes the marvelous young man he promises to be.” Kahler paused, half bowed toward the bench, and said, “Thank you, Your Honor.”
So many half-truths, Buddy thought. So many distortions, but maybe not outright lies. Except for the one about Ben’s aunt and uncle adoring him. That’s bullshit.
Ray Sawyer stood, a little unsteadily, and shuffled to the lectern. He carried a yellow legal pad, nodded toward Judge Miles, and said, “If it please the court, my esteemed colleague does what he’s paid to do, that is, to make his clients look great and me look bad. But allow me to submit, Your Honor, that this issue was decided one year ago. Not by anyone in this courtroom but by Ben’s parents, who were recently slain. Alton and Brenda Brook knew about the best interests of their son, Ben. They knew about the supposed adoration of Ben by his aunt, uncle, and cousin. About the supposedly warm and supportive environment the extended family could provide Ben. And Ben’s parents also knew how their son’s six and a half billion dollars in assets played absolutely no role”—here Sawyer turned and gestured with an open hand toward Dietrich Brook and family—“absolutely no role in the desire of that aunt, uncle, and cousin to take custody of Ben.”
Buddy nodded, silently urging Sawyer on, feeling a flicker of hope.
Sawyer continued, “But understanding what was best for their son, did Alton and Brenda Brook assign custody of the boy to any member of their family? No, Your Honor, they did not. In fact, they specifically state in their wills and trust documents that Ben must never, in any circumstances, be given over to any of his aunts or uncles. Instead, as Your Honor knows from reading those documents, which I’ve provided to the court and Mr. Kahler, Ben’s parents gave custody of Ben to me. And it is I, and nobody else, who they asked to make all future custody arrangements for their son, provided that custody arrangement must not—must not, Your Honor—involve Dietrich Brook or any member of his family.”
Ray Sawyer held up an index finger and added, “And what we haven’t heard today is evidence that Ben’s parents didn’t know his best interests. The fact is they wanted him with me. And yes, my wife was murdered . . .” Sawyer paused a moment, breathed deeply, and continued, “But I’m retired and will dedicate myself to raising Ben. I can give him a safe and supportive environment, the very one his parents wished. It is incumbent upon this court to follow the instructions that Ben’s parents gave us. Anything else would be a perversion of the law and of common sense. Anything else would place Ben in an environment not of adoration but of humiliation and danger.” With this, Ray Sawyer bowed slightly toward Judge Miles and concluded, “Thank you, Your Honor.”
The rows of reporters behind Mei, Buddy, and Ward began talking immediately. Some typed hurriedly on laptops, others stepped out to make calls.
Buddy watched Ray Sawyer, who seemed shrunken and frail, nearly trip over his own feet as he tottered back to his seat. The older man sat down, his hands grasping the yellow legal pad, and turned to Buddy. He gave a wan smile and then faced the judge.
Buddy turned to Mei and said under his breath, “You see, it’ll be all right.”
Mei tried to smile, but she looked nervous. Buddy saw her turn her head to Ward. Ward nodded encouragingly and leaned toward her, motioning for Buddy to lean in as well.
Ward said, “Now the judge will take it under advisement. She has ninety days to make a decision.”
Buddy relaxed. Ninety days wasn’t long but it was better than fearing Ben would be taken away sooner. He sat up and turned to Ben, who was watching him carefully. Buddy squeezed his hand. “I think we’ll head home now. Ward says the judge is going to think about it for a few months and then tell us what she wants to do.”
Ben’s face remained blank. “Will I get to stay with you?”
Buddy thought maybe the doctor had prescribed too large a dose of painkillers for Ben, but then again when it was time for another dose, he began to cry softly from the wound. Buddy said, “Yeah, Ben, don’t worry about it. You heard Mr. Sawyer tell the judge about your parents’ instructions to have you stay with him, and how he can decide custody arrangements. Mr. Sawyer has already decided he’ll have you live with Mei and me. So that’s settled.”
Judge Silvia Miles banged the gavel and brought the court to order once more. For such a small woman she had a loud voice with a hard edge, a voice with precision and authority but not a hint of warmth. She said, “Thank you, Mr. Kahler and Mr. Sawyer, for your arguments this morning. I appreciate your and, in the case of Mr. Kahler, your clients’ concern for Ben Brook’s welfare. Over the past day or two, I’ve reviewed the short briefs you sent the court. I’ve also reviewed the will and trust documents signed by Ben’s now-deceased parents. Those are very powerful documents, to be sure, but they were written at a different time and in a different situation. By statute it is this court that must determine the best interests of Ben Brook, based on the totality of the circumstances today. And so this morning I’ve decided to take the decision under advisement and will rule in due time.” She banged her gavel twice, stood from the bench, and disappeared into a back corridor.
Buddy got out of his seat and knelt down beside Ben’s wheelchair. He put his arms around the boy, coverin
g him as if from a terrible storm. He held Ben fiercely and felt the boy hugging him desperately and sobbing. Still covering Ben, Buddy moved his head close to Ben’s ear and said, “Listen, Ben. No matter what happens, you’ll be okay. You’ll be safe.”
Ben cried, “I don’t want to go.”
Buddy kissed his cheek. “I don’t want you to go anywhere.” Then he searched for Ben’s eyes, all the while fearing that if the judge ruled in favor of Dietrich Brook, there wasn’t much he could do. He’d be powerless before the law.
Ben grew quieter. He made no response, nor did he loosen his grip. His eyes met Buddy’s. He said, “I love you, Buddy.”
Buddy straightened, felt a tear forming. He moved so Ben wouldn’t see his face, and wiped it away. Yet his heart seemed to burst. A new warmth flowed through him. Without thinking about it, without regard for the consequences, he turned back to Ben and heard himself say, “I love you, Ben.”
Ben smiled at him.
Buddy tousled his hair.
A light hand touched his shoulder. Knowing it was Mei, he moved aside. Mei stepped closer and embraced Ben. She smiled. Then she laughed—and something about her laughter in the face of fear and uncertainty broke the frightening spell of the proceeding.
Buddy felt better, even hopeful.
Ward stood beside Mei and nodded approvingly.
After a moment Ben smiled. His eyes brightened. To all of them, he said, “Can we go home?”
Buddy said, “Damn right we can.” He walked behind the chair, took hold of the handles, and pushed Ben down the center aisle of the courtroom, Mei and Ward following them. They went slowly past Dietrich Brook and his wife and daughter, past the reporters and photographers, and out into the cold gray city.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I’d like to thank those who provided early encouragement: John Hatch, Jane Rice, Norma Thomson, Bruce Campbell, Marya Hornbacher, David Lebedoff, Karen Rye, and my mother. And my father for his careful reading. Not least, Will Roberts, my agent, for his brilliant suggestions and always wise counsel. The team at Thomas & Mercer, including Jessica Tribble and Peggy Hageman, whose advice improved the book significantly. And last, thank you to my wife, Megan, for her continuous support and for being the essential ingredient to life.
