Sins of the Fathers

by John Richmond

TWENTY TWO

  HORTON’S HEAD HURT. He stared into the bathroom mirror at the ruin of his face. His left eye was swollen shut and he had a burning cut on his right cheek. He’d only got the fucking thing to stop gushing by pushing the wound together and dabbing the overlapping skin with Super Glue. Stung like hell, but it worked in a pinch. A friend from Horton’s days on the force always carried a tube of the stuff; he’d been a carpenter in his spare time or something. “They say it’s supposed to be carcinogenic or whatever, but hell with it,” he’d said, coughing around a Lucky Strike. Horton had liked that guy. Sergeant…sergeant…shit, he couldn’t remember his name now. He touched a plum-colored bruise on the bald expanse of his head and winced. Miracle he could remember anything after the pasting he’d just taken.

  Horton had the training and strength to tear off Frank Mason’s arms and beat him to death with them if he felt like it, but when they’d discovered that the Father had snatched the kid, he’d just laid back and taken his medicine. He knew it was the only way to achieve what had become his single driving purpose: Survive long enough to get Jeremy back—from the priest, from the demon, maybe even from his father.

  They’d been waiting in the den for several hours with no word from Calvin. Horton had hoped to keep his boss sedate through the administration of one bourbon on the rocks after another, but Mason was a careful drinker. He’d only gotten half-way through his third cocktail when the flying pendulum clock on the bookshelf had rung out one in the morning. Horton had looked over at the clock and when he’d looked back Mason was holding a .38.

  “Through fucking around, Mr. Horton,” he’d said, voice dead-empty. “Let’s go check on my boy.”

  Horton hadn’t argued. Some of it had been because he was exhausted, but most of the reason was because he’d grown convinced in the passage of those dark hours that Jeremy had killed the priest. When they got to the boy’s room and discovered Emma Grouwe snoring peacefully face down on the floor, instead of Jeremy raving and spitting in the bed, Mason had exploded. With an expert flip of the wrist, he’d turned the pistol around and smashed it into Horton’s face. Graying in and out of consciousness, Horton had reigned in his reflexes and let Mason nail him again. There’d been no shouts or curses, just the sound of blows and harsh respiration. Mason’s fury and Horton’s shame had muted them both.

  When he’d finished, Mason pulled Horton up by the ear so he could own the bodyguard’s eyes. “You do what you need to do to find my boy. Get cleaned up and get started. I’ll drive this tub of guts,” he’d toed Emma Grouwe’s bulk, “to the hospital.” Bleeding and stumbling, Horton had helped Mason wrestle Emma into the back of the Town Car. Mason had spoken through the window before driving to the emergency room, “No pigs, Horton.”

  “Sir? Police resources could—.”

  “You think I’m the only boss who’s hired from the Gendarmes, jackass?” Mason had said, a twitchy little smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “My enemies could have people on the force and those people can’t be allowed to know of my present vulnerability. Do you follow me, Mr. Horton? Make me feel better, tell me you’re five-by and all that other shit.”

  Horton had nodded. “Five-by-five, sir.” The shaky smile had scared him. Mason was barely holding his shit together. But it hadn’t been just that—he was right. There were plenty of dirty cops on the greater metro police force. It would be hard enough for Horton to track and retrieve the kid from a professional like Father Calvin, let alone do so with a small army of hitters on the trail with him. “No police.”

  “You need to be gone by the time I’m back, Mr. Horton. You need to be on the road. I can feel the distance between myself and my child increasing. Glue yourself to your cellular. I want reports every other fucking second.” He’d roared the Lincoln down the drive before Horton could acknowledge. Didn’t matter, acknowledgement was implied. After all, failure to comply would spell forfeiture of Horton’s life.

  Now, Horton stared at himself in the mirror and tried to burn the fog off his mind. But where to start? What did he have other than Emma Grouwe, unconscious on the floor? It was likely that she wouldn’t know anything anyway. The simple fact that she continued to draw breath was enough to show that Calvin hadn’t thought her a liability. Horton had nothing.

  Better to just move, he decided. He used Mason’s return to the house as his deadline and started by throwing a couple of changes of clothes into a black gym bag. He jogged downstairs to the bar room and into the walk-in humidor, the heady aroma of cured tobacco enveloping him. Facing the south wall, he stuck his finger out and counted off four shelves down and three sections over. “Lucky seven,” Horton whispered and grabbed a cigar that had been laid out of sync with its brethren, the label at the top instead of the bottom. A sensor tripped and the wall slid back, revealing a small utility room. Instead of tools and cleaners hanging from the pegboard walls, an arsenal of firearms and surveillance equipment threw a leaden gleam. Horton jammed a few choice pieces into a hard-sided case and left, the wall of cigars sliding closed behind him. He rushed toward the glass door of the humidor, paused, then grabbed a handful of fragrant Cubans. If he got through this with the boy safe and sound he’d call them his finder’s fee.

  Three minutes later he stood in the garage staring at an oil stain on the cement. The cargo van was gone. Now he had a place to start. The good Padre had used a company car and all of Mr. Mason’s vehicles had a little something extra installed under the hood. Horton had insisted on the upgrade when Mason hired him. Horton grinned then winced as the muscles around his cut tried to pull it open. He hissed and touched the wound with the tips of his fingers, but the super-glue was holding. He shook his head and walked over to the only other car left in the company fleet. Mason would be pissed as hell, but what else was Horton supposed to do? The boss had taken the Lincoln and there was no time to waste with a rental.

  Horton set the “tool box” in the small trunk and tossed his gym bag on top. He laid in behind the wheel and keyed the engine. Mr. Mason’s prized ride purred into life and Horton threw the onyx custom Lotus Espirit Turbo into reverse. He tapped the gas and the Lotus leapt from its cage. Horton smiled, the cut hurt, but he couldn’t help it. This car could do sixty going backward. He slewed it through a gentle J-turn and floated down the drive, his backside four inches off the ground.

  Horton pulled the Lotus to a gravel-crunching stop at the end of the drive, the halogens flooding across the road and into a weedy ditch like bolts of blue gas. He flipped open his cell phone and dialed. After a few clicking brrrs, a woman perked, “OnStar, this is Courtney. How may I assist you?” Horton grinned into the dark.