Breaking the Rules

by Suzanne Brockmann

  Ben kept on shaking his head. “She didn’t.”

  “I saw her leaving the mall with you,” the mall guard said, his tone accusatory. “Yesterday.”

  Oh God.

  “Where’d you go with her?” the skinhead asked.

  “We just need to know where she took you,” the other cop said. “No one needs to know anything about what you did when you got there. That’s not what this is about.”

  “She didn’t take me anywhere,” Ben lied. “She helped me get home. I’m diabetic. I was having a low-blood-sugar incident and she helped me get the bus and that was it.”

  “Where’s home?” the bald cop asked.

  “Not far,” Ben evaded. “Usually, I walk, but I was feeling dizzy. She lent me the money for the fare. But like I said, that was it. I got on the bus, we said good-bye, and I went home.”

  There was silence as the two cops exchanged a look. The cop in sunglasses sighed. “Okay, son, here’s what’s going to happen. You’re going to tell us your name and your address and we’re going to take you home. Because we’re pretty sure you’re not quite being honest with us and we need to see if your mom or dad recognizes our missing girl, because we think you brought her there with you yesterday.”

  “I don’t have a dad,” Ben said, stalling because he knew his only option here was to run. To at least try to get away.

  “Or,” the bald cop said, clamping a ham-sized hand around Ben’s upper arm to hold him in place, since he was clearly capable of reading minds, “you continue to act like a stupid little shit and refuse to give us that simple information, at which point we cuff you and toss you in the back of our car and take you down to the station for questioning. Whereupon you’ll be required to show us identification, at which point we’ll have your name and address, except it’ll take us about four hours to cut through the paperwork and get you home, so you’ll spend all that time in a holding cell with all the junkie methhead homo perverts, crying for your mommy as they fuck you in the ass. So why don’t you just cut the crap?”

  “I don’t have identification,” Ben said defiantly. “I lost my wallet, so good luck with that. Also, I’m not a lawyer, nor do I play one on TV, but I definitely want to see your badges again so I can write down the numbers so I have ’em when I do find a lawyer, because that sounded like police intimidation to me, as well as rampant homophobia. As a gay American, I resent that.”

  “I’m out of here, guys,” the mall guard said, scuttling away.

  The sunglasses-wearing cop—the good cop—sighed again. “Let’s all take a deep breath,” he said.

  Ben did just that, filling his lungs with air. “Bad touch!” he shouted, pitching his voice as high as he could. “Mommy, the bad man is touching me!”

  And every mother’s head in that mall whipped around.

  The bald cop tried to muscle him out of there, but Ben remembered the self-defense class Eden had brought him to, years ago, at a mall much like this one, down in New Orleans. He went limp as he shouted, “This man is not my father! Help me! This man is not my father!”

  The cop let go of him, and Ben rolled away, scrambling to his feet. He booked it out of there, skidding on the tile floor as he went around the corner toward the nearest entrance.

  The bald cop was chasing him, his feet pounding on the tile as he shouted, “Stop, thief! Someone stop that boy!”

  But the shoppers with strollers moved out of his way, and Ben hit the door with both hands, pushing it open. The brilliance and heat of the morning exploded around him as he charged out into a courtyard area with benches for smokers and kids waiting to get picked up by their parents.

  There was a pull-off for cars, and Ben headed across it, toward the parking lot, which was crowded here by the mall entrance. He launched himself toward the parked cars, hoping he could lose himself among them.

  But there was a police car approaching from his left, along the road that ran parallel to the footprint of the mall. It was moving fast, heading toward him. Ben looked behind him, where—shit—the bald cop was closing in, while the other cop hovered like a goalie, guarding the entrance back into the mall.

  He was screwed.

  Still, he ran, right through the shrubs and palm trees.

  But the police cruiser anticipated his route, and pulled around him, screeching to a halt to block him. “Stop!”

  And still, he didn’t give up. He went up and over the top of the hood while the uniformed officer scrambled to get out, shouting again, “Stop!”

  The police car blocked the bald cop’s path, too, but it didn’t slow him down much, either.

  “Use your Taser!” he was shouting, and Ben glanced back to see them both coming across the hood of the car.

  “Freeze!” the uniformed officer shouted.

  But Ben didn’t stop. He just plunged on across the road and onto a slightly raised area of desert plantings and desiccated mulch, praying that he’d make it to the shelter of the parked cars, before—

  Something hit him, square in the back, and the pain it delivered was worse than anything he’d ever felt before, and he screamed. But even worse than the pain was the sensation of losing control of the muscles in his legs as he went down onto the dirt.

  If he’d been on the pavement, he would’ve cracked his head open. As it was, he kind of bounced and then settled. Immobile. Numb, but still oddly humming.

  He’d been tased.

  “Thanks, Paul,” he heard the bald man say to the uniformed officer as they both caught their breath.

  “Shoplifter?” the cop named Paul asked.

  “Nah,” the bald man answered, his voice getting louder as he moved closer to Ben and quickly searched him, his hands going into Ben’s pockets. “I’m working a missing-person case. A little girl ran away—the parents are really upset. She was spotted here and this kid knows her and … There’s mental illness involved. Paranoid delusions. And that’s on top of whatever PTSD the kid carries. She was adopted from some war zone and … It’s a real mess. Shit, he’s got no ID.”

  Paul reached down, too, and none too gently cuffed Ben’s wrists together before detaching the juice-emitting ends of the Taser from the back of his T-shirt.

  Ben still hadn’t reclaimed his ability to speak, but he looked up at the cop as indignantly as he could, because, Jesus. Handcuffs?

  The police officer called Paul read his expression correctly. “When a police officer says stop, you stop. If you don’t, you’re breaking the law. I’m taking you in.”

  Ben managed a sound that conveyed his dismay. It wasn’t quite a no or a please, but it was close.

  To his surprise, the bald cop was on his side. “Come on, Paul, the cuffs aren’t necessary. There’s no need to—”

  “I gotta bring him in,” Paul said. “You know the rules, Jake. I discharged a weapon. There’s procedure and protocol. Besides, aren’t you supposed to be in school?”

  That last question was aimed at Ben, as the uniformed officer hauled him to feet that didn’t work right, and dragged him over to the police car.

  “He says he’s home-schooled,” the bald cop reported, following.

  “We’ll see,” Paul said as he opened up the back door and pushed Ben inside, where he fell over onto the seat, his cheek against the plastic.

  He heard the door slam behind him, and the sound of voices as the two men continued to talk. He couldn’t make out the words over the roar of the a/c and the squawk of a police radio that cut in and out.

  But then the front door opened and he heard and felt it slam as Paul got into the car. He felt the transmission being put into gear and then they were rolling.

  They were heading downtown, to the station, where eventually they’d figure out who Ben was and where he lived. They’d also find out that he wasn’t home-schooled. He was cutting. As for Neesha, who’d run away from home because she was mentally ill? It didn’t matter how long they held him. He couldn’t answer their questions, because he didn’t know where she was. And w
hen they finally figured that out? They’d bring him back home and deliver him to Greg—who would beat the shit out of him.

  Or at least try.

  Only, this time, the creep would be ready for Ben to fight back.

  This time, Ben was going to get flattened. And there was nothing in the world he could do to keep it from happening.

  Unless …

  He tried his vocal cords again, and this time they worked. “Do I get to make a phone call?” he asked through a throat that felt raw after the way he’d screamed like a girl from the Taser-induced pain.

  “Depends,” Paul answered him, “if you’re under arrest. And that depends if you’ve got any priors.”

  “I don’t.”

  “We’ll see.”

  “What happens if I’m not under arrest?” Ben asked.

  “You call Mommy and Daddy to come pick you up, they bring you home and ground you for two years.”

  “I live with my sister,” Ben said, which wasn’t quite a lie.

  “Then you get to interrupt her busy day, and she comes to the station to pick you up and bring you home and ground you for two years.”

  Okay. Good. That was good.

  Or at least as good as it could get with his arms twisted behind his back and his face pressed against a vinyl seat that smelled like sweat and piss.

  CHAPTER

  EIGHT

  Eden’s shift was over after the bulk of the afternoon rush, and for once she didn’t push to get a chance to dance for another few hours. She just put on her clothes and took a deep breath, bracing herself as she pushed open the door that led out to the club’s parking lot.

  But there was no one out there besides the valet attendant, who was sitting, bored and steaming, in the shade from a wilting umbrella.

  Of course, if she were Izzy, waiting to talk to her, she’d be in her car with the engine running and the air conditioner blasting instead of standing in the hot Nevada sun.

  Still, as she shouldered her bag and walked swiftly toward the bus stop, there was no movement from the lot. No tall, obnoxiously attractive Navy SEALs jumping out of their cars and shouting, “Hey, Eden, wait …”

  And that was definitely relief she was feeling, not disappointment, as her feet took her farther from the club—although she really didn’t completely believe it until she hit the bus stop and looked around.

  Nope. No Izzy. He hadn’t stuck around to talk to her.

  She had no idea how he’d found her here—although Danny certainly knew she was back in Las Vegas. Plus she’d given her father her address and phone number when she’d called to ask if he knew if her brother was okay. He’d no doubt given that information to Danny, who used it to call her …

  Still, to have Izzy show up like that, at work?

  She was mortified.

  It was one thing to dance for strangers with their empty, hungry eyes, another entirely to know Izzy was in the house.

  Lord, he’d looked good. His face was tan and his dark hair was longer than he usually wore it, but he’d neatly combed it back. He was dressed in a pair of khaki dress pants—and that was crazy weird because Eden couldn’t remember ever seeing him in pants even remotely like those. He usually wore cargo shorts and a T-shirt. Or his white dress uniform. He’d worn that, with rows of ribbons on his chest, when they’d gotten married.

  But the shirt he had on today had a collar and buttons up the front. He wore the sleeves rolled to his elbows to fight the day’s heat.

  It was crazy—as if he’d gotten dressed up because he knew he was going to see her but didn’t want to go the full-dress-uniform route.

  Maybe she no longer rated.

  But it didn’t make sense—for him to track her down to give her a handful of cash, take her figurative pulse, and then walk away …?

  Unless his message had been visual. Take a good long look at what you threw away, sweetheart …

  He’d certainly taken a good long look at her—which had been so strange. Mostly because, in the past, he’d rarely looked at her without smiling. This morning he’d been grim and unamused. And yeah, he’d faked a smile at one point, but it hadn’t touched his eyes.

  She’d always loved the way that the warmth of Izzy’s smile had echoed in his eyes.

  But those days were gone.

  Eden shouldn’t have cared. She didn’t want to care.

  Yet still, even though Izzy had left the floor level of the club, she’d been self-conscious all morning long, and had tried to compensate for it—and succeeded, apparently. That success was reflected in her larger-than-usual tips.

  Not counting that small pile of cash that Izzy had deposited on the stage. The pile that she’d fully expected to have the opportunity to give back to him after her shift was through.

  As she waited for the bus, she dug for her cell phone to turn it back on, and saw she had both a missed call and voice message from the same local Las Vegas phone number.

  It wasn’t either of her workplaces, and it wasn’t her new landlord …

  She dialed her voice mail and listened to the message.

  Eden. It’s Ben. I’m in trouble. I went to the mall to try to find … my friend, and I got picked by the police for not being in school and …

  Oh, Lord.

  Well, it’s more complicated than that; in fact, it’s beyond weird, but I’ll tell you later. Anyway, look, they ID’d me from my fingerprints—remember when you took me to that SafeKids program, because of my diabetes?

  Eden did remember. It was right after they moved to Las Vegas from New Orleans. At twelve, Ben had been, by far, the oldest kid among all of the toddlers at the police station, and he’d been beyond embarrassed. But Eden had insisted. Because he’d participated in a similar program back in New Orleans, they’d been able to find him more quickly, after Katrina.

  Well, congratulations, because of that, I’m in the system. And they now have my name and Greg’s address, and because I don’t have any other priors, they’re going to bring me home in some kind of police-department house call of shame, and deliver me into the hands of my loving parents.

  “Oh, crap,” Eden said aloud.

  Yeah, Ben’s message said, as if he’d heard her. I told them that my mother worked until late, but that I also live with my real bitch of a drill sergeant older sister, who’s in charge of making me do my homework and making my life miserable. I didn’t mention Greg because, Jesus. But I told them that you’d be home in the afternoon—that you usually met my bus, like I’m a freaking kindergartner and they actually bought it. So please, please get over to the house by five o’clock—just sit on the front steps, you know? Like you’re waiting for me? Bring ID—they’re going to want to see ID. And maybe, just maybe we’ll be able to pull this off. And Eden? I’m so sorry …

  The phone system’s automated voice clicked on. “To replay this message, press—”

  Eden hung up the phone and checked the time. It was 4:45.

  The city bus was finally coming, but it was heading in the wrong direction, away from the squalid little house that Ivette still shared with Stupid Greg.

  What she needed was a cab, pronto.

  She started to run to the nearest hotel where there was a taxi stand, but in the middle of crossing the street, she stopped, realizing what she really needed …

  Was Izzy.

  Eden looked wildly around, hoping that he was still out there, somewhere, watching her. Just because she didn’t see him didn’t mean he wasn’t there.

  If she’d had his cell-phone number, she would have called him, but she didn’t have it. Not anymore. She’d thrown it away when his response to her letter had been silence.

  But here and now, he didn’t appear—like some knight in shining armor.

  She was on her own. Which was exactly what she’d wanted, wasn’t it?

  Eden quit hoping for miracles and hiked her bag farther up on her shoulder and ran.

  NEW YORK CITY

  WEDNESDAY, 6 MAY 2009

&
nbsp; Being in New York again was surreal.

  It really hadn’t been that long since Dan had last been here—and yet it seemed like forever.

  Jenn’s studio apartment was exactly the same as it had been last February—tiny. It was cramped with the bed folded up into the couch, and even smaller with it pulled out.

  Jenn had clearly left the place in a hurry when she’d gotten the news he’d been injured, and the bed was out and open.

  She now set their two bags in the minuscule nook of a kitchen—that had been fun, watching her hump his bag up the building’s front stairs while he’d stood impotently off to the side and seethed with frustration.

  But he wasn’t allowed to lift anything heavier than the remote control—a direct quote from the doctor.

  “Close your eyes,” Jenn had ordered him. “Just don’t watch.”

  But he had watched—in particular he’d watched her ass, which looked awesome in the jeans she was wearing.

  Except he wasn’t allowed to do any strenuous activity—including have sex—for another five to seven days.

  Well, which was it? Five or seven? In some ways the point was moot, because as badly as he wanted some, he wasn’t getting any tonight. Although Danny was pretty damn sure that five days from now the was-it-five-or-seven question was going to matter pretty intensely.

  “We’re going to meet Maria for dinner,” Jenn told him now, and his surprise must’ve shown on his face.

  He was exhausted. He wasn’t normally such a baby, but the flight had been taxing and all he wanted to do was to crawl into Jenn’s bed and sleep.

  And okay. Not true. What he really wanted was to crawl into Jenn’s bed, pull her down beside him, fuck his brains out, and then sleep for about fourteen hours straight.

  “To talk about the custody thing,” Jenn reminded him.

  Dan looked up from staring at the bed. “Oh, yeah. Right. Sorry. Great. Thanks for, um, setting that up.”

  “We’re not meeting her until eight,” Jenn told him as she came over and peeled his jacket off his shoulders. “You look like you need help here.” But then she took his T-shirt and pulled it up and over his head.