Sawbones

Chapter 3

Laura’s Ex-Boyfriend

New Jersey — Wednesday — Two Days Ago

Brian’s what you’d call a pain in the ass. Eighteen, on the football team, brown floppy hair, dimpled chin, blue eyes. . exactly the sort of guy a sixteen-year-old blonde girl would fall for. I’ve seen him at Mr Jones’s place a couple of times, picking Laura up in that flashy convertible his mom and dad bought him. No surprise he’s a cocky bastard.

Only Brian doesn’t look quite so cocky now. He’s standing in Mr Jones’s living room, trying not to meet anyone’s eye. As if we give a shit that he’s been crying — we’ve got more important things to worry about. Like where the fuck is Laura.

“We can only stay a couple of minutes,” says Sergeant Maloney, hat in his hands, all respectful like. “FBI’s holding a briefing and I gotta be there to make sure everyone’s got paper and fuckin’ pencils.” He stops, looks at Mr Jones’s wife. “Pardon my language, ma’am.”

I don’t think she even notices.

“I tell you,” says the Sergeant, “these FBI cocksuckers — pardon my language — are running about like it’s Silence of the God-Damned Lambs. Not one of them ever heard of proper solid police-work.”

Henry’s standing over by the window, watching as the sweeping headlights of someone’s car makes the front yard glow. The FBI have searched the grounds and now they’re heading further out. Probably looking for something illegal they can pin on Mr Jones. Bastards. Like he doesn’t have enough to worry about with his daughter getting snatched by some sick weirdo.

“I think,” says Henry, “Mr Jones would like a word with Laura’s boyfriend.”

“Right,” the Sergeant backs up a pace, “Right, yeah. Of course.” He pushes Brian forward.

The kid looks at the carpet, looks at the paintings on the wall, looks at the fireplace, everywhere but at Mr Jones.

“Where the fuck were you?” asks Mr Jones. “Where the fuck were you when my little girl was getting taken?” He picks up a glass full of scotch and hurls it into the gas fire.

Brian mumbles something.

“What?” Mr Jones grabs him by the lapels and shakes. “What the fuck did you say?”

“I said it wasn’t my fault!” Brian breaks free and smoothes down his jacket. “We had a fight. She didn’t want me going to Harvard. She threw Diet Coke all over me. Stormed out of the movie.”

“And you didn’t go after her?” Mr Jones’s voice is low and precise, and all the hairs stand up on the back of my neck. This is not good for Brian. But what does he know? He’s eighteen, he’s rich, probably thinks he’s immortal.

“She said she hated me; was going to take a cab home. I — ” He makes a strange squeaking noise as Mr Jones takes a hold of his face and shoves him back, banging his head off the wall.

“You let my daughter, my SIXTEEN-YEAROLD daughter wait alone for a fucking cab? In the middle of the fucking night? In the dark? In that part of town?”

Sergeant Maloney can see what’s coming. “Come on now, Mr Jones, let’s all just calm down. I’m sure — ”

Mr Jones smashes a fist into the Sergeant’s face and the cop falls to his knees, hands clutched over his nose, blood pouring out between his fingers. Moaning in pain.

“Mark,” Mr Jones speaks to me without looking round, “take Sergeant Maloney and get him a drink.”

I say, “Yes, sir,” and help the guy over to the couch — then hand him a stack of napkins and a large scotch with ice. He dabs his broken nose with one and sips at the other, thanking me.

Brian sees this — sees Mr Jones punch a police officer and the police officer taking it — and something clicks on in his brain. It’s fear. The sudden knowledge that being rich and eighteen isn’t going to be enough this time. That Mr Jones doesn’t give a flying fuck if Brian’s father is chairman of the golf club. That Mr Jones wants his daughter back and he wants her back now.

And Brian left her to take a cab home on her own, and some bastard snatched her.

“Henry,” says Mr Jones, “go fetch the bolt cutters. I think Brian here’s about to have an accident.” It’s not a sight I’m going to forget in a hurry.