Painfully slow, but inevitable.
After the press conference finished, the group dispersed and McLeary returned to the station and called him into his office and described their plan of attack. John was reminded of something a great boxer had once said: ‘Everyone goes into the ring with a plan. And that plan goes right out the window the first time you get hit.’ They’d been hit twice now.
Their prime suspect was BB’s nephew, Randy. He’d been arrested over a dozen times and had a criminal record for assault and dealing drugs. Apparently, there were students at the high-school willing to stand up in a court of law and swear that he had frequently targeted and assaulted Paul Dushku. Added to which, Randy was also a life-long-time friend of their most recent victim, Robert White.
While the circumstantial evidence was piling up against him, to John it didn’t feel right. After reading everything they had on the Boyd family, the methods used by the person they were looking for required formal education, something the Boyd family was in desperate shortage of. He didn’t allow himself to lean one way or the other, he’d delay forming an opinion until he was sitting across from him.
McLeary’s grand plan was to ride the Cannon woman’s coat tails until she either screwed up, or Randy led them to the evidence. John had to admit, if Randy Boyd was the person they were after, then he’d underestimated that family, badly. Maybe he’d read a bunch of books on forensics and got lucky, or maybe he’d spent enough time around other criminals to gain enough knowledge to pull it off. Hard to believe, but not impossible.
- - -
For the second time, John drove home to find the house completely black. Every light was off and there was no sign that his son had returned home from school. The last time that happened, Mark had been screwing around the old high school and gotten lost in the woods, the same woods and on the very same night Paul Dushku was murdered.
John shuddered at the thought and tried to shake it out of his head as he let himself into the house. It was nothing more than coincidence. His son wasn’t capable of the things he’d seen, added to which, they were almost certain that the same person who killed Paul Dushku also killed Robert White and last night Mark was home in his little self-imposed asylum in the attic. The entire house was a symphony of warped lumber, and John was a light sleeper, if he had gone out, John would have heard him.
Tossing his duty bag onto the kitchen table, he moved to the phone and checked the voicemail messages. The computerized version of a female told him that there were three unheard messages, the exact number John had left. He checked them anyway and heard his own voice at the start of each one before deleting them. The collapsible steps leading up to the attic were firmly closed up into the ceiling, just as John had insisted that Mark do whenever he was leaving the house.
Just to be certain, he reached up and pulled them down and called up into the dark space. After receiving no response, he decided to take a look for his own piece of mind.
The attic was warmer than John expected it would be. Spanning about thirty feet in length and about ten feet wide the pointed ceiling which made it near impossible for him to stand up without hitting his head. Moving his room up there had been a typical teenager’s decision, fun over practicality every time. Growing up, John’s childhood room had been about the size of a walk in closet, which he shared with an older brother that liked to pound the shit out of him every chance he got. Those beatings were just practice for the main event that occurred almost nightly when his father came home. He would have killed for a room like this at Mark’s age.
John found the lamp on the dresser and fumbled with the switch for a few seconds before light illuminated the attic. Mark had his mattress turned sideways against the end of the room that faced the front of the house. A small window at the other end was cheap paned glass that rattled in its frame against the wind.
One more thing for him to fix.
Because of the sharp angles of the walls as they rose to meet at the ceiling, Mark’s dresser looked out of place as if it’d been left in the middle of the room by accident. A desk small enough to be a child’s was flush against the wall underneath the window with Mark’s laptop and a small radio sitting on it, some writing implements were scattered about. Nothing would have seemed out of the ordinary if the boy in question had been anyone other than Mark.
The artwork and posters of Beethoven that he’d displayed in Rosedale had been replaced by posters of bands called Slipknot and Rage Against The Machine and pictures of deer rifles and high-end sports cars. He’d given in, allowing Mark to inhabit the space even though he hadn’t asked for his permission in the first place, but then John had said no to so many things he just wanted to give Mark something he wanted for a change. Based on what he was seeing, he considered the possibility that he’d made a mistake.
A quick check of the room was in order. John didn’t make a habit out of invading his son’s privacy but then, until recently, Mark had never given him reason to. When the desk and dresser yielded nothing, John went to the old standby: between the mattress and boxed-spring.
Nothing.
John powered up the laptop on the desk and logged onto the Internet. He quickly checked his email account hoping for a message from his son and found nothing but spam. He typed a quick message to Mark, just in case he was sitting in front of a computer somewhere (wherever that might be) and had just sent it off when he heard footsteps coming up the stairs from the ground floor of the house. The steps suddenly broke into a run, the attic steps creaked and Mark’s head popped up from the floor.
“What are you doing in here?” he said angrily, a look of shock on his face.
“Looking for you. Where have you been?”
John had been doing his best not to be angry with him, keeping in mind all the things he was going through. It wasn’t working.
Mark climbed the rest of the steps into the room and rushed over to his laptop, slamming the screen shut.
John took a deep breath and focused all his energy on remaining calm, he said, “In case you haven’t heard, boys your age are dying in this town. The mayor just put a curfew in place until we catch whoever is doing this.” Despite his effort to resist it, anger welled up in him like an inferno. “What is the matter with you?”
Mark didn’t even flinch. He turned his back on him and began walking away, “Get out.”
John was moving across the room after him before the thought had even occurred to him. He seized him by an arm and spun him around, grabbing him by the shoulders. He was about to give him an earful, not only for the disrespect he was showing, but also about the tough-guy act he was putting on. He was stopped mid-sentence by the look of pain on his son’s face. John instantly released his shoulders, he hadn’t thought he was squeezing him that hard, but he could see actual tears had filled Mark’s eyes. John released him instantly and taking a step back away from him said, “I’m sorry, are you alright?”
“I’m fine.”
“Did I hurt you?”
“NO.”
“Mark,” John said seriously, trying to make it clear he wasn’t about to drop the subject anytime soon, “you look like you’re in pain.”
“I’m not.”
John carefully approached him again, this time gently placing his hands on his shoulders so he could look him right in the eye.
“Mark, neither of us is leaving this room until you tell me what’s going on and where you were.”
Mark started talking. John tried not to judge or form any opinions until he was done. While he had been busy dealing with what was right in front of him, his son had been going through his own troubles. It was hard to listen to, even harder to accept. He’d tried very hard to raise his son right and had always gone out of his way to make sure his family was protected, more importantly, that they knew what the score was. The world was a cold, cruel, unforgiving place and while he always kept the gory details to himself (those were his private burden to bear), he felt they had to know the frequency
of the horror that was occurring outside their little bubble so that they could protect themselves while John was away. And he was away a lot.
By the time Mark was finished talking, he’d realized he hadn’t done a good job. While he wanted to praise his son for his honesty, it was impossible for him not to address the mistakes his son had made. “Mark, what those kids did to you was wrong, I’m glad you told me. And believe me, I’m going to take care of it, right away.”
Mark was sitting on the bed with his elbows resting on his knees, his shoulders at an awkward angle, but just then he sprang to his feet, oblivious to his injuries. “Don’t do that, you’ll only make it worse!”
“Let me finish,” John said insistently. “There are things going on in this town that you can’t possibly know.”
“I know more than you think.”
John’s anger boiled, he was approaching dangerous territory and was beginning to wish he’d come home half an hour later.
“Don’t interrupt me. You have to be smart,” he said, tapping his son on the forehead in what he hoped wasn’t too aggressive of a manner. “Skipping class, hanging out in the smoking area, Mark . . . you’re fifteen years old!”
“Dad,” he protested, “I had to skip school, you don’t understand!”
“I don’t care, Mark. If these people were bothering you, then you tell somebody. Me, for starters. You don’t take it as an excuse to skip school! And, if you hadn’t been off school property, or hanging out where you shouldn’t have been, you wouldn’t have gotten beaten up!”
“So that makes it okay then . . . it’s my fault?”
John took a step back and closed his eyes, rubbing his neck. He imagined by this time, his own father would have brought out the belt, perhaps even the two-foot length of garden hose with the metal end still attached. Not him, his father’s wrath was buried with him, or so he hoped.
“Mark, I didn’t say that, what they did isn’t right and that’s why we can’t let them get away with it. I’m going to handle that and you don’t have to worry, they’ll never know you said anything and even if they do, it won’t matter.” Mark sat up and inhaled sharply and John held up his hand to keep him from speaking, “In the meantime, I’m keeping you home from school.”
“What, no way!!!”
“Furthermore, you’re also grounded. That means you are not to leave this house under any circumstances until I say otherwise. Is that clear?” Mark jumped up from the bed and kicked the side of his dresser with such force that John actually heard the wood snap. “This is BULLSHIT!”
John crossed the few feet separating them in an instant and before he could stop himself, grabbed his son by the collar of his shirt and pulled him so hard it ripped. “Goddamn it, I am your father! Don’t you ever talk to me like that again!”
He felt as though he was outside his own body. He saw a young boy locked in a death grip by his father’s hand and the man’s free hand was raised as if to slap the boy. He briefly felt the sensation of falling backwards before his vision refocused and he realized he was that man. It was his own hand cocked and ready to strike his son.
He lowered his hand and released his grip on Mark’s shirt, feeling if he didn’t leave the room immediately, he would do something that couldn’t be undone. Without another word, he headed for the attic steps and began making his way down.
“Hey, John . . . ”
Someone that sounded like Mark spoke, stopping him mid-step. He actually had to turn around to confirm with his own eyes that it was his own flesh and blood speaking to him.
“I’m going to school and there’s nothing you can do about it,” he said. “I’m going to school because if I don’t, nobody in this shit-hole of a town you moved us to will ever respect me. As far as my being grounded, I can and will leave this house anytime I please.”
John stood frozen on the stairs, unable to speak, adrenaline was pumping through his system in massive doses and he had to remove himself from the situation to keep from exploding. As he reached the bottom step, he heard his son’s voice call down to him, “And from now on, stay out of my fucking room.”
As he walked calmly down the hall to his own room, he found himself wishing he had alcohol in the house for the first time since Jimmy Hackerman died. He went into his room, gently closing the door behind him and stood looking out the window. His entire body was shaking. The boy he’d just about struck in the attic was not Mark. He didn’t know who it was, but it wasn’t his son.
For the first time since they’d moved here (if not the first time ever), he found himself questioning not only Mark’s mental health, but his own.
Twenty-eight
Sarah pulled the Suburban up to the curb and killed the engine, waving to Ian and Tristan as they drove away in an identical SUV. It was half past two in the morning and the residential street was dark and quiet, with one exception. The house that she and Darcy were there to watch was lit up like a Christmas tree. Dark figures passed back and forth across the windows, their shapes visible at times through the confederate flag that served as the living-room curtain. From their position on the street, the black SUV was practically invisible. Sarah hoisted up her binoculars and focused them on the house.
“Looks like everybody’s still up,” she observed handing the glasses to Darcy in the passenger’s seat.
“Maybe they’ve got something on their minds,” she replied suggestively.
They watched in silence for a while, taking turns with the binoculars while the figures continued to pace about, arms flailing angrily. Every now and again, they could actually hear their voices across a hundred yards in distance and through the closed windows. “Sounds like an argument to me,” Sarah pointed out while reaching for the thermos of coffee they’d brought along to keep them awake for their overnight surveillance of the Boyd residence. “You want coffee?”
“Shit yeah,” Darcy said through a yawn.
Sarah poured them both a cup and they sat sipping it. It was black, no cream, loaded with sugar. When the back door of the Suburban on the passenger’s side suddenly opened, Sarah spilled hers all over the dashboard as she went for her gun. Darcy’s landed on her lap and she cursed loudly as she struggled to turn around in her seat to see who had just climbed into the vehicle with them.
By the time Sarah’s gun cleared the holster the person had already climbed in and closed the door, he said, “How’s it look, detective?”
It was the goddamned hotshot.
“What are you doing here?” Darcy exploded. “You scared the shit out of us, you’re lucky I’m so tired or you might have caught some lead.”
“I don’t doubt it,” he said, leaning forward between the two front seats and looking at their target through the windshield. “What’s going on over there?”
Sarah was beyond livid. She sneaked up on people for a living, as a rule, people didn’t sneak up on her. Checking her rear-view, she saw no vehicles parked on the street but the ones that were there when they arrived and those were all empty. She knew because she’d checked, she always did.
“Where did you come from?”
“Couldn’t sleep,” he replied. “Besides, I had an interesting conversation with my son tonight and I didn’t think this could wait till morning. I went by the motel and here I am.”
“Oh,” Sarah said, somewhat relieved. “Well, we’re kind of busy here, so if you don’t mind . . . ”
“Randy Boyd,” John said, pointing at the house with a hint of anger. “I just found out he’s been . . . harassing isn’t the right word, assaulting is more accurate, my son.”
“Really?” Sarah said, her interest piqued, “Does he know he’s picking on your kid?”
“I’m not sure. But I arrested Randy’s uncle on my first day here so I wouldn’t be surprised if he knows exactly whose kid he’s beating on.”
Sarah let out a sigh and turned to Darcy.
“Did the hotshot seriously just risk blowing our surveillance because somebody’s picking
on his kid?”
“Sounds that way to me,” she smiled back.
“Do me a favor and explain to him that some dead beat picking on his kid is harassment . . . simple assault, at best.”
“I think he gets it.”
“Do I get out of bed for a simple assault?” Sarah asked sarcastically.
“You don’t even roll over.”
John was insistent, she could see his eyes in the rearview mirror and he looked mad as a hornet. “Okay,” Sarah said, turning back to him, “So Randy Boyd has been harassing your son. What do you want to do about it?”
“Personally, I’d like to stuff both of his arms up his ass and pull them out through his eye sockets.”
Sarah and Darcy simultaneously broke into laughter, apparently they weren’t the only ones on the verge of becoming violent over the things happening in this little town. They quickly shushed each other and returned their focus to the house down the block.
“That’s a good one,” Sarah confessed. “Unfortunately, it just so happens that he’s a subject in a major investigation involving dozens of people and half a dozen agencies. His status as a possible serial killer trumps his status as a school-yard bully, sorry.”
“That’s why I’m here.” John said, leaning back for the first time. “Randy Boyd and a few of his friends, one of them his girlfriend, kicked my son half death yesterday. Apparently it’s not the first time either.”
“Sorry to hear that, officer Stevens. I don’t imagine this is what you had in mind when you transferred up here from Toronto.”
“Well, hindsight is twenty-twenty,” he said, rubbing his eyes as if he hadn’t slept in days.
“What was your plan coming out here tonight?” Sarah asked, finally. She’d been waiting to see if he’d volunteer the information and he hadn’t.
Rage: The Reckoning Page 22
