“I’m not ruling it out, but . . .”
“How about this? His mom helps him snatch the kids.”
I glanced over at Kenny, who was alternating between coloring and reading comics on the floor not far away.
Camille had taken Wilbur to the doctor. Mickey was babysitting Kenny and the store.
I nodded at Kenny and Mickey lowered his voice.
“Then she also helps him set up the dads and get rid of the bodies,” he continued. “Two of them working together like that . . . The bodies could be buried in the woods right out back of here.”
I shrugged. “It’s possible, but I still think it’s unlikely.”
The front door opened and Miss Ida and Summer Grantham walked in.
“We came to check on you,” Ida said. “Heard what happened. Why you didn’t say somethin’ the other night on the phone? You okay?”
“Thank you,” I said, standing to hug them. “I will be once Frank Morgan wakes up.”
They joined us at the table.
Today Summer was rocking an old, faded maroon Madonna T-shirt with jeans and matching Keds. She looked like she would fit in better over coloring with Kenny than sitting with the adults at the dining table.
“What you did,” Summer said, “saving that poor boy the way you did . . .”
“That poor boy,” Ida said.
“I’m praying for your friend,” Summer said.
“Thank you.”
We were all quiet a beat.
“Hey Mr. John,” Kenny said, “you ever read Batman: the Dark Knight Returns by Frank Miller?”
“I haven’t, Kenny,” I said. “Is it good?”
“It’s great. You can borrow when I’m done . . . or we can read it together.”
“I’d like that, thank you.”
“Speaking of superpowers,” Mickey said to Summer, “use yours and tell us if Creepy Gibbons is responsible for what happened to Cedric, Jamal and the others.”
She rolled her eyes. “Doesn’t work that way. And it’s not a superpower.”
“Whatta you think?” Ida asked me.
“I think it is a superpower,” I said. “She’s just being modest.”
“I meant about the boys and Daryl Lee.”
“Not ruling anything out, but . . . predators like him usually hunt within their same race and don’t usually change their MO.”
“But maybe for a short while when he was here,” Mickey said, “he didn’t have a choice. Maybe what he did here, what they did, was opportunistic, more to do with who was here than his preference.”
Something Wayne Williams said to me when I first encountered him at the Omni’s arcade six years ago echoed inside me.
Just ’cause I prefer chocolate, don’t mean I couldn’t go for some vanilla.
Summer nodded, but I couldn’t tell if it was to what I had said or Mickey.
“And one more thing,” Mickey said, “and this is the biggest of all as far as I’m concerned.” He paused for effect, but didn’t make eye contact with any of us, which undermined it. “If it was Daryl Lee, it would explain why they stopped,” he said. “They stopped here ’cause he moved. They continued somewhere else ’cause that’s where he moved to.”
I nodded. “You’re right,” I said. “That is the best argument of all.”
“Somebody need to see where all else he lived,” Ida said. “See how many missing children there are in those areas.”
“I’ll talk to Remy Boss about it,” I said.
“If it turns out he took any black boys in any of the other places, it would strengthen the case for him doing it here,” Summer said.
We nodded our agreement and fell silent for a moment again.
“Has Ada agreed to the tap yet?” Mickey asked Ida.
“No,” she said, shaking her head, “and she ain’t gonna.”
“It’s like she doesn’t want to know,” he said.
“Maybe she doesn’t,” Ida said, “but not for the reason you think. Once you know, you can’t unknow. You can’t lie to yourself anymore. No matter how hard you try or how good at it you are.”
“Are girls allowed to read Batman too?” Summer asked.
Kenny and I were on the floor in the little toy area. I was reading to him. We both looked up, but I waited for him to answer.
“Sure,” he said. “Come on. You can read the girl parts.”
She and I smiled at each other at the thought of girl parts.
“Is it okay?” she asked me.
“Of course,” I said.
She sat down beside us, tucking her feet beneath her legs. As she did, Kenny slid toward me, then eased into my lap.
In that moment, I realized a few things. First, how closed I had been to Kenny, how completely my experience with Martin Fisher had shut me down—and not just Martin but every victim I had encountered—how much loss and pain, death and devastation I had seen. I had been in self-preservation mode—still was, and it had caused me to give far less to Kenny than I otherwise would have. I realized too just how much Kenny was looking for and in need of the attention and affection of a man, a father figure. It was that very vulnerability that most likely led to the capture of many of the victims. Finally, I felt funny with him on my lap—something I never would have before. After what I had seen in the original case and then at Daryl Lee Gibbons’s house, I felt awkward having Kenny so close—not for anything having to do with him or me, but how it might appear to others in the light of all we had been dealing with.
“Ooh,” Summer said. “This is good.”
She slid over next to me, which made me feel better about how this looked. Before long, Kenny was in her lap, which made me feel better still.
Chapter Forty
“You actually sat across from Wayne Williams,” Susan said.
“I did.”
I was sitting across from her now—at a table in the back corner of Scarlett’s drinking coffee. I found it easier not to drink anything but coffee when I didn’t sit at the bar.
Remy Boss had said he would do his best to swing by to talk to me if he could. I was waiting for him and reviewing my notes on the cases—while sipping coffee and talking to Susan.
“How was it?”
“Surreal,” I said.
She nodded. “I bet. Did he say anything that made you believe he was . . . innocent? Or guilty or anything?”
“I’m still processing everything he said, so . . . maybe. I’m not sure.”
“Look at this,” Margaret said from behind the bar. “They say we got snow coming.”
She turned up the TV and we all listened.
“Metro Atlanta may see its earliest snowfall on record,” a local weather man was saying.
An afternoon regular at the bar said, “Please tell us you’re not going to close down, Margaret. Even if it’s the storm of the century.”
“It’s not gonna snow,” she said. “It’s not, but if it does . . . whole city shuts down. You know that. At the slightest dusting of white powder. Hell, a Martha White Flour truck turned over on 285 and all the commuters stopped and hunkered down in their cars ’cause they thought the white dust was the first sign of flurries.”
“Southerners, am I right?” the patron, who had lived here his entire life, said.
“We should have a snow pool,” she said. “Bet on whether it’s gonna snow or not.”
“Yeah,” the patron said. “Let’s do it. Put me in for twenty for it not to. I don’t think it’s gonna happen. Or maybe I just don’t want it to. Either way . . . Puttin’ my money where my heart is.”
“You believe this?” Susan said, jerking her head back toward the conversation at the bar.
I smiled. “I’ve never been in snow before,” I said.
“Really?”
“Unless I’m blocking out some family trip from childhood.”
“It’s not gonna snow,” she said. “But . . .”
“Yeah?”
“How long you been sober?” Susan as
ked.
“I’ve lost track,” I said. “A while.”
“I thought AA was all about keeping track.”
“I’m not a very good member,” I said. “And I’m not convinced what Lonnie and those guys do in his little room is actually AA. Why?”
“Just thought . . . if you keep it up . . . and if it does snow—two very big ifs—maybe we can hunker down during the snowstorm together. Rent a couple of movies, eat some pizza. Make out.”
“Really? How much sobriety would that require?” I asked. “Just so I know.”
Later in the afternoon, right on time, Lonnie came in and Margaret poured him his usual—the shot of bourbon to stare at.
Today, he stared at the drink much longer than he did other days.
Sensing something was wrong, I stood and started walking over toward him.
Instead of sliding the glass back toward Margaret, he lifted it and started to take a drink.
“Wait,” I yelled and rushed over to him.
I grabbed the glass just as it reached his lips, knocking it over, it bouncing down the bar and careening off of it onto the floor behind.
“What’re you doin’?” I said.
He shook his head. “I just . . .”
“Come over here with me,” I said. “Come on.”
I grabbed him by the arm and led him over to my table as Susan wiped down the bar and Margaret cleaned up the glass on the floor behind it.
“Can we get another coffee over here?” I said.
“Sure thing,” Susan said. “Coming up.”
She had it on the table in front of him by the time we sat down.
“What’s going on man?” I said. “Want to go to a meeting?”
He shook his head. “Just can’t take it anymore. It’s too much. I’ve held it together so long.”
I nodded. “I know you have. You’ve done great. You really have.”
“Losing my business . . . is really gettin’ to me. Got nothing else. No idea what I’m gonna do. Then stirring everything up around Cedric and those others . . . Takes me back to such a bad time. So tired of fighting.”
“I know,” I said. “I know you are.”
“I know you think you do,” he said, “but you don’t. Think about how long you been doin’ it. That’s nothing. Hell, I been drinking longer than you been alive. Been sober longer than you’ve been drinking.”
“I didn’t mean—”
“I been so strong so long. Been holdin’ it all together—for Cedric, for Ada, for my store, for . . . What’s the use? Cedric ain’t ever comin’ back. My store’s a lost cause. Ada’s got her phone calls, found religion. Don’t need me no more. I got nothin’. I’m done fighting. Can’t do it no more.”
“Drink some of your coffee and let’s do a meeting, right here, right now.”
“You listening, man? I don’t want to do no goddamn meetin’. Don’t want to say no goddamn Serenity Prayer. I want a fuckin’ drink and keep ’em comin’. Got it?”
“Please,” I said. “I need you. I can’t do this without you.”
“You don’t need me, man. You’re doin’ just fine. Just fine.”
“Because of you,” I said.
“No,” he said. “Not because of me. Because of you. You’re doin’ it. Not me.”
“I couldn’t’ve done it without you,” I said. “Can’t do it without you. I mean it.”
“You don’t mean it.”
“I do. Don’t believe me? Fine. You drink, I drink. You wanna drink? Fuck it, let’s drink. Whatta we havin? Susan, give us two bourbons. Make ’em doubles.”
She shook her head. “I won’t. I can’t.”
“What kind of bar is this?” I said. “Margaret, come join us. Bring a bottle.”
“I would, but I’ve got to stay behind the bar,” she said. “Sorry.”
“Fine, we’ll move to the bar,” I said. “Come on.”
As I started to stand, Lonnie grabbed my arm and pulled me back down.
He didn’t say anything, just held my arm with one hand and began drinking his coffee with the other.
Later, after Lonnie had gone back to work and I was still waiting for Remy Boss to drop by, Susan walked over to me.
“You weren’t bluffing, were you?” she said. “You would have drank with Lonnie, wouldn’t you?”
“I wasn’t bluffing,” I said.
“I didn’t think so.”
“That mean our snow date is canceled?” I asked.
She frowned. “’Fraid so.”
I had almost given up on Remy by the time he finally showed up.
“Only got a minute,” he said. “Can’t stay.”
He didn’t even sit down.
“What’s up?” he added when I didn’t say anything.
“We were wondering if the victims here could be Daryl Lee’s and if there were any black victims in the other places where he lived.”
“We?”
“Our missing and murdered children group,” I said.
“The investigation is just beginning,” he said. “It’ll be a while before we know where all he lived and if he even had any other victims. It won’t be quick.”
“I know, I just—”
“Look, I’ve tried to be patient with you, but . . . you gotta leave me alone and let me do my job. As a courtesy I’ll come and talk to your little group after the investigation is complete, let y’all know anything I can.”
His entire attitude had changed. It wasn’t that he had been much more than indifferent or slightly patient before, but now he was actually hostile.
“Sorry,” I said. “I won’t bother you again.”
“Lot of people blame you for what happened to Frank Morgan. I’m not one of them. Frank is the professional. You’re the . . . whatever you are. Young person. He should have never gone in there, should’ve never taken you. Whatever happened after that is on him.”
I nodded, and thought about it, remembering how I had pressed Frank to go when he did—and to take me with him. Maybe I was to blame.
“This is serious shit,” he said. “Fuck up and people get hurt or killed. Just think about that. Now I’m gonna look into these missing kids over here again—like I already told you. And I’m gonna see if there’s a Daryl Lee Gibbons connection. I’m gonna do a thorough and professional investigation. I appreciate the information you’ve given me. Now let me use it.”
Chapter Forty-one
I got in my car and I drove.
I drove angrily and aggressively.
It was dark now, traffic had thinned.
I was on 285 driving like I had somewhere to be in a hurry.
I had been at it a while, but my face still stung from embarrassment and frustration. I felt lonely and useless, isolated and guilty.
I wasn’t sure how long the blue lights had been flashing before I noticed them, but I bet it had been a while.
I pulled over and put my car in park, my heart pounding, my eyes bulging.
“Where you headed in such a hurry, son?” the fifty-something gray-headed cop holding the bright light in my face asked.
“Just out for a drive,” I said. “Clear my head.”
“License and registration. Where do you live?”
I told him as I handed him my documents.
There wasn’t much traffic on 285, but what there was streaked by in a windy whoosh then disappeared again into the dark night.
“Why do your plates say Florida?”
“I’m a student,” I said. “Recently moved up here. “Permanent residence is in Florida.”
He studied my license, then pointed his light back in my face. “Why’s your name sound so familiar?”
I shrugged. “Not sure. But I get that a lot.”
“No, I know. You’re the one that . . . they found that dead kid in your apartment.”
“Actually, I found him,” I said.
“You got that one cop killed. What was his name? And another half-dead, fighting for his life in
the hospital right now. I’ve pulled me over a sure enough by god menace.”
I started to explain but knew there was no use.
“Just wait right here,” he said, then ambled back to his car.
With Frank in the hospital and no friends on the force, I had no one to call. No friends. Only enemies. Only those who wished me ill.
As alone and isolated as I had felt before, I felt far more so now—alone, isolated, and vulnerable. Very vulnerable.
I sat there, flashing lights illuminating my car and the night around it, and waited.
And waited.
Eventually, another car, this one a dark unmarked, pulled in behind him.
This time two cops approached my vehicle—one on either side.
“Step out of the car,” he said.
Stay calm. Don’t give them any reason to justify use of force or anything else.
I did as I was told. Slowly. Carefully.
“Hands on the hood,” he said. “Spread your legs.”
I did, and he patted me down.
As he did, the other cop began searching my car.
“Larry Moore was a good cop,” the guy in my car said. “Miss him. The force misses him. The city misses him.”
The cop behind me put his mouth to my ear. “Think anyone would miss you?”
I shook my head.
“Hands behind your back,” he said.
I did as I was told and he cuffed me.
The cop in the car popped the trunk, walked around, and began searching it.
“Hey Kyle,” the cop behind me said, “how many cuffed losers resisting arrest have we had fall into oncoming traffic out here?”
“Not enough, brother. Not enough.”
He grabbed my arm and turned me around to face the four lanes of 285 closest to us.
He smelled of cigarettes, fast-food, and aftershave.
“They slow down some when they see our lights,” he said, “but not much. Not enough to make a difference. Hell, it’d be better for you if they sped up. Lot better to get eighty-sixed than made a vegetable.”
Heart and head racing, I did my best not to let him know how much what he was doing was affecting me.
Hooking his leg around my feet, he began leaning me toward the traffic, my hair blowing in the brisk breeze the cars generated.
BLOOD CRIES: a John Jordan Mystery (Book 10) (John Jordan Mysteries) Page 15
