Hocus

16

“YOU DID FINE,” Cassidy said. “You let him get your goat a couple of times, but that’s what he was aiming to do.” He paused, then said, “They’re a little unusual. They’ve studied the Las Piernas Police Department.”

“What do you mean?”

His cellular phone rang before he could reply. He answered the call, listened for a moment, and said, “Well, it will be helpful whenever it does come through. Thank you…. Yes, we may be receiving other calls here.”

He hung up and said, “That was Bakersfield PD. The phone company says it’s going to be at least a couple of hours before they can get back to us with the trace. The call came from out of the local area. That’s no surprise. He talked too long — he was probably fairly sure it would take us a while to trace it.”

He explained that a telephone call made within a local area could be traced fairly rapidly; but a call made from outside areas, or one that crossed phone company service areas, might take much longer to trap — two days or more.

“So at least one of them — Samuel — isn’t in Bakersfield.”

“Right.”

“And they don’t seem to have anyone following us around, or he would have picked up on your lie about getting lost.”

He smiled. “Right again.”

“You took a chance there, didn’t you?”

“Not much of one. I was more worried that you’d get angry and deny it than I was that he’d make a fuss over it.”

“Now you’re trying to make me angry. What were you saying before — about Hocus studying the department?”

“They’ve got all kinds of information that takers don’t usually have. They were expecting me to be here with you. They’ve done some research on how our department handles these situations, who they send out for crisis negotiation.”

“You don’t like that, do you?”

He shrugged. “Not the way I’d prefer it to be, but not the end of the world.”

I looked toward the door. “I guess I’d better let the others know what’s happening before we go to pick up that fax.”

“Hold up a minute,” he said. “I’d like you to listen to the tape while I play it for Hank. Sometimes, the second time through, you learn things, pick up on things you missed while you were feeling the pressure. Just let me make a couple of quick calls, then we can go and talk to the family together.”

He called Captain Bredloe, gave him a synopsis of the call, mentioned I was still in the room with him. After a brief pause he said, “Yes, sir. I’ll call back a little later.” He then called Henry Freeman, told him he would have a modem set up soon and would be sending a report for Freeman to distribute. He played the tape, and I tried to learn from his part of the conversation while wincing over my own mistakes. He was right about the second time through, though.

“I noticed something,” I said when he finished his call. “They wanted to call us by our first names, but they keep calling Frank ‘Detective Harriman.’ They aren’t — what do you call that? When the hostages and hostage takers bond with one another, start to worry about each other—”

“Stockholming,” he said. “Or Stockholm syndrome. Gets its name from an incident in Sweden. Some hostages were held for six days in a bank vault by two escaped convicts. When they were released and the takers were arrested, police there noticed something kind of odd — both the takers and the hostages had developed a kind of sympathy and affection for one another.

“Hard to say why it happens,” he went on. “Maybe it’s because of the dependency of the hostages on the takers; others say that under stressful conditions, as time passes, the hostages and the takers are more likely to begin to see each other as individual human beings.”

“So you’re saying it’s too soon for Samuel and Bret to form that kind of bond with Frank, then?”

“It may not happen at all. I’d warn you not to count on it happening here.”

“Why not?”

“There’s been a lot of publicity about Stockholming, especially since the Hearst case, so people mistakenly believe the Stockholm syndrome is a given. It’s not.”

“But you seem especially doubtful about it in this case,” I pressed.

He sighed. “Like I said before, these takers know who goes out on a crisis call in Las Piernas. They know how long it takes to trace a phone call. We have many examples that show they are intelligent and that they plan ahead. My guess is they know all about the Stockholm syndrome. They’ll do their best not to succumb to it — you can see signs of it already. Calling him ‘Detective Harriman’ instead of ‘Frank’ — that will help them keep some emotional distance.”

“But how can they have emotional distance from the man who saved them from that cellar?”

“How could they injure him?” Cassidy countered.

“How could they put their ‘hero’ in the trunk of a car? Drug him? Use him as a pawn? Do any of the other things they may have done to him?”

“It has something to do with his being a cop, doesn’t it? They have some problem with cops.”

“Maybe.”

“They never once mentioned Lang and Colson. Never once proposed an exchange.”

“No, they didn’t. Odd, isn’t it?”

“Yes. They don’t seem to want an exchange, but they do want me to find a Bakersfield cop who made an anonymous phone call to a dispatcher. Why?”

“It doesn’t make sense to me, either,” Cassidy said.

“If an officer made the call, there was no reason for him not to identify himself to the dispatcher.”

After a moment’s thought I said, “But if a cop did make the call to the dispatcher, he had to know that something was going on at the warehouse.”

“Right,” Cassidy said. “Let’s say he drove by and suspected something, then didn’t do anything about it until it was too late. Maybe they resent him for it. Maybe they believe he could have saved their fathers’ lives.”

“No, he had to have done more than drive by the place,” I said. “Otherwise they wouldn’t be aware of his existence — how would they know he had seen anything in the first place? They must have seen him or heard him themselves. Samuel said they were certain the caller was a cop.”

“So he showed up, left, and didn’t save them—”

“Or was actually involved in the murders,” I said.

Cassidy rubbed a hand over his hair. I could see him resisting that theory, trying to come up with another explanation.

“They were afraid of policemen, remember?” I went on. “What reason would the cop have for fleeing from the scene? Even if he didn’t want to go in on his own, he could have radioed for backup.”

“Let’s go get that fax,” he said.

“I want to talk to Frank’s family. They’ve been waiting out there.” I stood up.

Cassidy stayed seated. “This fellow, Greg Bradshaw — he’s the one you were telling me about earlier, right?”

“Yes. He’s the Bear.”

“Former Bakersfield Police Department?”

“Yes.”

“You going to tell the family everything we talked about just now?”

I thought it over. “No, probably not. It’s just a theory.”

“Even if they ask you to tell them what Samuel said?”

“I don’t know….”

“Better if you don’t,” he said.

“I don’t want to lie to them.”

“I’ll make it easy on you. Let me talk to them.”

“You mentioned Bradshaw,” I said. “Bear’s the problem?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You’re starting to believe it, aren’t you? You think a Bakersfield officer was involved in the Ryan-Neukirk murders.”

He shook his head “Not necessarily — but it’s possible. Don’t tell me that just as it’s starting to make sense to me, you’re moving on to some other theory.”

“No, but even if it’s true — not Bear. I know Greg Bradshaw. He was a good cop.”

“You knew him when you were in your early twenties?”

“Yes.”

“Have you grown any less trusting of people since then, Irene?”

“Yes, but I’m willing to bet he was a good cop even by my present cynical standards.”

“Willing to bet Frank’s life on it?”

I bit back the reply I wanted to make, not ready to have my mother-in-law hear that end of my vocabulary under her own roof. But Cassidy must have read it on my face, because he said, “Simmer down.”

“If you want me to simmer down,” I said, “quit turning up the heat.”

He smiled, which doubled my irritation. “Fair enough,” he said.

They were still in the living room, silent and tense. Bea sat next to Bear, her face full of worry. Mike paced with his hands in his pockets. Cassie sat on the couch, elbows on her knees, her forehead resting in one palm. Cassidy was behind me, so I was the first one to walk into the room. They all looked up at me at once, the way people in a hospital waiting room look up when a surgeon comes out to talk to them. I was no surgeon.

“They say Frank’s okay,” I said, “but they’re keeping the calls short. I didn’t get a chance to talk to him this time—”

“Will y’all forgive us if we keep you waiting for another twenty minutes?” Cassidy interrupted as he walked in the room. “I need to borrow Irene for a little while, but I’ll bring her right back. I’d love to explain, but for the moment, I can’t. You know how that goes, don’t you, Officer Bradshaw?”

“Sure, sure do — only I’m retired, so just call me Greg. That’s good enough. Mike, here, now he’s an officer. He works for the highway patrol.”

Cassidy smiled at Mike and said, “Forgive me. Irene neglected to tell me you were in law enforcement.”

“I’m sure she’s had other things on her mind,” Mike said.

“Yes, well, we’d better get going, Irene.” He handed a card to Bea. “My cell phone number’s on that card, Mrs. Harriman. Please call me immediately if Hocus makes any contact with you or if you need to reach me for any other reason.”

“We’ll be right back,” I said even as Cassidy walked toward the front door.

“Well, that didn’t go very smoothly,” I said as we headed toward the west side of town.

“I’ll try to do better next time,” he said, not even attempting sincerity. “Especially now that I have a little more information about the family.”

“Sorry. Mike was right, I’ve been distracted. But the real reason I didn’t mention it is that I think of him as Mike, not Mr. CHP.”

“No real harm done, I suppose. Don’t worry about it. And don’t worry about not telling the family everything there is to tell. It’s best if they understand right away that they aren’t all going to be included in everything that goes on — much as they might like to be. They do strike me as the type of folks who might have a curious nature.”

What he said made sense. The more I thought about it, the more uneasy I became. “You have the tape with you?”

He smiled. “Why? You think your in-laws will listen to it while we’re gone?”

“No, of course not,” I said, shifting a little on the car seat.

“Of course not.” He laughed.

“Cassidy—”

He reached into an inside pocket on his suit coat and pulled out a cassette. “Why tempt fate — or anybody else, for that matter?” he said, and slipped it back into his jacket.

The copy store was busy. There was a long line at the order desk, and all of the self-service copiers were in use. The place was noisy and smelled of toner. The help was all under the age of twenty-three.

Students were preparing term papers, job hunters were copying résumés, businesspeople were printing newsletters and flyers. Normal life.

Fortunately more people were placing orders than picking them up. I walked up to the cashier, who had a name tag that read SHAUN, and asked if they had a fax for Irene Kelly.

“Just a moment,” he said. “I’ll have someone check.”

He turned around and shouted, “Suzanne! Is there a fax here for Irene Kelly?”

“I don’t know,” Suzanne shouted back. “I’m with a customer.” That didn’t stop her from shouting in turn, “Heather!”

Heather, who was on the phone, shrugged when Suzanne shouted the question to her.

Cassidy hooked two fingers in his mouth and whistled like a drover. I’d swear it nearly broke the windows. All conversation ceased. Except for the soft shuck-shuck of the collator on a large, automated copier, the room was still. “Pardon me,” Cassidy said in a low voice, “but we can’t wait for y’all to holler your way around to everybody workin’ on first shift. Would one of you please just look for Ms. Kelly’s fax? It’s important.”

I don’t know how anyone found the fax, since all eyes seemed to be on us, but somehow they managed it. By the time Shaun handed me a manila envelope, the noise level was nearly its old self again, even if I hadn’t stopped feeling acutely embarrassed. I opened the envelope and saw a good number of pages. I pulled out the first one and turned to Cassidy. “Look.”

It was a cover sheet, which had the usual sort of information on it:

To: Irene Kelly

From: Hocus

Pages Including Cover: 21

It also gave my home phone number as the number to call if pages were not received. But at the very top of the page, the copy shop’s fax machine had printed the time the fax was received — eleven A.M. — and a phone number in my area code, a number that was not mine. Cassidy immediately took out his cell phone.

“That will be $11.13 with tax,” Shaun said.

Paying for the fax rankled, but I had bigger concerns.

Still the subject of a lot of attention, I decided to read the other pages outside. It was then I remembered Samuel Ryan’s exact words. “There was also supposed to be some mail here for me, too,” I said to Shaun.

“Oh, right!” he said. “You’re the one. We do have a package for you.”

“A package?”

“Well, an Express Mail envelope,” he said, reaching below the counter and handing me a brightly colored cardboard mailer.

I stared at the Express Mail address tag. My name was on it, printed in neat block letters. The return address was labeled “Mr. John Oakhurst,” with a Las Piernas address, on a street I didn’t recognize. I doubted it was a real one. After all, I realized, the package had to have been mailed the day before — when only Hocus knew I would be in Bakersfield to receive it.

“Do you usually do this sort of thing?” I asked. “Hold mail for customers, I mean?”

“No, but my manager said this John Oakhurst asked us to do him a favor, because he’d be sending a big fax later and you needed this to go with it. But the fax didn’t have his name on it, so I guess they were held in separate places.”

I pulled on the tab that would open the cardboard envelope.

“Don’t!” Cassidy shouted, but it was too late. The package was open.

Nothing exploded.

The inside of the envelope had been lined in bubble wrap. Within the lining there was a small object and nothing more.

“Please don’t reach in there,” Cassidy said, sounding as if he might actually be on the verge of becoming upset. “And please don’t go opening any other gifts from Hocus.”

I didn’t answer him. I was staring at the object.

It was a vial of blood.

17

THE ROOM STARTED CLOSING IN ON ME. I shoved the envelopes toward Cassidy and hurried outside. It was a while before Cassidy came out of the store, carrying the faxes and the package. He found me leaning my folded arms against the roof of the car, resting my forehead on them, trying very hard not to let this be the moment when every impulse that had been urging me to become hysterical won.

“Irene?”

I looked up at him.

“You look a little peaked,” he said. “Want to sit down in the car for a while? We don’t have to go anywhere. We can stay here until you’re feeling better.”

I stepped away from the door and let him unlock it.

“I’m okay,” I said.

“Sure,” he said.

He rolled down the windows and pulled out of the parking lot. I didn’t talk to him, and it was a while before I realized that we weren’t headed back to my mother-in-law’s house.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “You need me to give you directions, don’t you?”

“Naw, I remember the way back,” he said.

“Where are you going?”

He smiled. “I guess I don’t know the exact answer to that question. But I think the general plan will do us some good.”

He made a turn, and soon we were on a road that led to an orange grove. He pulled over. “Take a deep breath,” he said, turning off the engine.

The delicate fragrance of orange blossoms filled the car. Not as exotic as what might be found at a department store’s perfume counter, perhaps, but no less enticing for its sweet simplicity.

In the midst of this grove of bright green leaves and small white blossoms, inhaling a scent I associate with cleanliness and innocence, I said, “I want to kill those assholes.”

“I see the shock has worn off,” Cassidy said. “Take another deep breath.”

“What is this? Aromatherapy?”

“Sure,” he said easily. “You can work through all five stages of grief, one breath at a time.”

“Great,” I said. “These twisted sons of bitches may be torturing my husband while we sit here. Or maybe they’re just draining his blood and mailing it to me one vial at a time. But the important thing is that I’ll be in perfect mental balance because I’ve taken time to ‘stop and smell the flowers.’ ”

He didn’t say anything. I ranted at him for another ten minutes or so, at which point I finally caught on, said, “Oh shit,” and shut up.

Cassidy stayed silent, just looking out at the trees. Finally he said, “Abductions are always triangles. Lot of folks think about the taker, or the taken, but not about that third side of the triangle, the person who waits and worries and — maybe worst of all — wonders. Wonders what the takers are doing to the person they love.”

I felt a tightness in my chest.

I must have looked bad, because Cassidy waited. After I had calmed down a little he said, “The takers know you care. They know you’re going to worry. It’s in their best interest to keep you worried. So they do things like this, to ensure your compliance. Truth is, Frank probably doesn’t even know he’s missing this little vial of blood. They probably took it from him while he was loaded up with morphine or Versed. They’ve got control of him. They want to take control of you as well.”

“So you take me to an orange grove so I can blow off steam, get back in control of myself.”

“They’ll keep you going twenty-four hours a day if you let them. They’ll exhaust you. Later on, when we find them, you may not have the luxury of fifteen or twenty minutes in an orange grove.” He looked out at the trees. “Scent is one of the strongest psychological links to memory we have, and you need to be able to remember to stay calm — so the next time they try to rile you, you think of orange blossoms, Irene.”

“You said, ‘When we find them.’ You think we will?”

“Yes. They’re starting to make little mistakes.”

“The Express Mail package was one, wasn’t it? There’s a cutoff time for next-day delivery. If that’s Frank’s blood, then it had to be mailed yesterday, after they took him and yet before the cutoff time.”

“Right. Usually that’s five o’clock, if the person wants any kind of assurance that it will get to its destination by the next day.”

I studied the Express Mail label more carefully. “The date and time of acceptance is written on the package by the mail carrier who picks it up,” I said, “so even though it was probably dropped in a roadside box with a stamp already on it, we know it was mailed before” — I looked at the place where the carrier had initialed the label — “four thirty-five P.M.”

“Yes.”

“And the zip code of the accepting post office is noted,” I said. “This is a Las Piernas zip code.”

“So we know the general area where they mailed it,” Cassidy said, “and just about when. Once we find out which carrier those initials belong to, we’ll be able to find out which box they mailed it from. But we’re getting a time frame at the very least. When I called Hank about this package, he told me that we’ve had another piece of luck.”

I looked up at him. He pulled out a notebook and flipped it open. “A fellow by the name of James Washington saw Frank in Riverside yesterday.”

“What?”

“Riverside PD had people interviewing rail workers, showing them photos of Frank. Washington remembered seeing Frank. He said Frank waved to him from the driveway of a run-down house — and described Dana Ross’s place. Working with the railroad people, Riverside has narrowed the time down to about eleven, eleven-fifteen. That fits within the general time frame of Ross’s death.”

He paused, and I saw his brows draw together a little.

“Go ahead and tell me, Cassidy. Your face doesn’t usually give much away, but for about two seconds there, you were easy to read.”

“No kidding. I must be slipping.”

I waited.

“The gun that shot Dana Ross was definitely Frank’s gun,” he said.

“Proving almost nothing.”

“I agree. Except that Ross had to be killed after Frank arrived. Some of the blood at the scene matches Frank’s blood type — which is different from Ross’s. The blood in the trunk matches Frank’s blood type. More definitive tests will take longer, but for now we’ll assume the stain in the trunk is from Frank. We know he was injured, probably in a struggle out in Riverside. He was then placed in the trunk of the Volvo and driven to Las Piernas. He was drugged at some point, probably early on. So we’re getting a clearer picture of events.

“Hank had other news,” he continued. “They used one of Frank’s credit cards yesterday.”

“Where?”

“At a gas station in Riverside.” He consulted his notes again. “At a little after one o’clock. Used it twice — filled up two tanks.”

“Two vehicles? Frank’s and the one they used to get to Riverside?”

“Probably.”

“Were they caught on camera, by any chance?”

“No luck there,” he said. “There are cameras, but they only cover the area near the cashier, not the outside at the pumps. The pumps are self-serve only, the type that have credit card readers built in. The customer can pay the cashier, or use his card right at the pump. Hocus used Frank’s card at the pump.”

“One o’clock,” I said. “That means they drove back to Las Piernas in time to take Frank’s blood from him, pack it up in the Express Mail envelope, and mail it, all before four-thirty yesterday.”

He nodded. “One more item. Hank told me the number on the fax you received is from a public fax machine at the Las Piernas Airport.”

“A copy center at the airport?”

“No, an unattended machine — sort of like a pay phone, only it’s a fax. You have to use a credit card. The card was stolen, but we’ve got folks out there now looking for prints and trying to find witnesses. Hank’s already got photos of Neukirk and Ryan.”

“I’m surprised they didn’t just send the fax by computer.”

“So am I,” he said. “It would easily have been within their capabilities.”

“That fax was sent not long after the second call to my house — when they told me to go to the Californian — right?”

“Almost exactly an hour later,” he said. “You talked to Frank then, so unless they’ve moved him since the call, he’s probably no more than forty-five minutes away from the airport. That’s allowing for time to park at the airport, walk in, and set up the fax. The fax man was careless. I don’t think he knew the number was picked up by the receiving fax.”

“So it begins to look like they’ve stayed in the Las Piernas area.”

“Yes. And with the photos circulating, we may get a better fix on them.”

“If Frank is in Las Piernas, I don’t want to be here in Bakersfield!”

“Nothing is certain right now, Irene. When we’re able to locate him, we’ll let you know right away. But we don’t know where he is, not yet. Even if we learn where he’s being kept, we’ve only changed some of the dynamics of the situation — that’s not the same as freeing Frank.”

I was silent for a moment. “Why would they be so careful for weeks, and then suddenly grow careless?”

“I don’t know. After working in law enforcement for a time, I started to learn what every cop learns — that every criminal is bound to do something stupid sooner or later. I’ve been amazed by some of them.”

“I don’t know, Cassidy. It bothers me. They have to know that they’re wanted for capital offenses, but they told us who they are.” I swallowed hard and said, “Maybe they’re suicidal.”

“Maybe,” he agreed.

I wondered if I really did want him to be so honest with me. “What’s on the fax pages?” I asked.

“Here,” he said, and handed me the pages.

“You’ve read them?”

“No, just skimmed them. I’ll read them again more closely as you finish them.”

I pulled the pages out of the envelope, set aside the cover page. Two words formed the title of the pages that followed:

Father’s Day.

Father’s Day

THEIR FATHERS AWAKENED them at two-thirty that Saturday morning. It was still dark outside, and the air was cool. Sleepily the boys dressed in jeans and flannel shirts. The car was already packed, waiting in the driveway in front of Bret’s house. They were on their way by three. “We’ll beat the traffic,” Bret’s father said. “Besides, we have to get there while the fish are still hungry for breakfast.”

The boys had stayed up late the night before, giggling and telling ghost stories, too excited about the prospect of spending a week at Lake Isabella to fall asleep when they were supposed to. They would stay at the Neukirks’ cabin. The cabin was small, but most of the time would be spent at the lake, in the Ryans’ boat, which would be ready and waiting in a nearby storage area. Sam’s dad didn’t get much time off, but he had promised everyone the week of fishing. Sam had confided to Bret that he had been afraid his father would cancel at the last minute. Gene had worked very late that night, and even Julian had been looking at the clock a lot. But Gene showed up. He was tired and worn out, but ready to go fishing.

In recent months something had been bothering their fathers. Sam and Bret had worried over this, talked about it again and again. The boys still saw each other every day, but sometimes Gene just dropped Sam off and left for the hospital. That wasn’t like him. He usually wanted to see Julian. But whatever had come between the grown-ups seemed to be over, and now the men were doing things together again. The boys were especially happy, because the rift had scared them.

Now they were tired, and almost as soon as they were in the backseat of the Ryans’ car, they fell asleep. Julian drove.

They didn’t know how long they had been sleeping when they awakened again. It was still dark outside. The car had stopped. The inside of the car was bathed in red, pulsing light. “It’s all right, boys,” Julian said, seeing their worried looks in the rearview mirror. “I was just going a little fast and now I’m going to get a ticket.”

“Mom’s going to be mad!” Bret said.

“We don’t have to worry about that for a week, now, do we?” Julian said.

He rolled down his window. “Is there a problem, Officer?” he said, trying to shield his eyes. The policeman was shining a bright flashlight into his face.

The boys could not see the policeman’s face, because he didn’t lean over at all. But they saw the dark blue of his uniform. They heard him say, “Would you please step outside the vehicle, sir?”

Julian did what the policeman said to do. As he stepped out, though, the policeman hit him hard with the grip of the flashlight. He fell to the ground.

The boys screamed, and Gene shouted, “Julian!”

The front passenger door flew open. A man grabbed Gene and held a gun to his head. The man was dirty and had strange eyes. Later they would learn that his name was Christopher Powell.

“Oh, Christ, the cop…,” Gene murmured.

“That’s right,” Powell said. “You just met your boss. Now tell them kids to sit still and shut the fuck up or I’ll blow your fucking brains out!”

The boys stopped screaming before Gene had to say anything. They had never been so afraid.

“Chris,” the policeman said, “you are using foul language in front of children. And why are there children here, Chris?”

The policeman was facing away from them, but his voice carried. It was a calm voice, but there was a meanness in it. They could not see his face, but they saw his back as he bent over Julian’s prone form. The policeman was big, bigger than their fathers, bigger than Powell. He had silver hair — it showed beneath his cap, above the dark blue of his collar. They could see a word on the patch on his sleeve: Bakersfield.

It made Powell angry when the policeman asked him why they were there. The boys were watching Powell now and saw him look at the policeman as if he wanted to shoot him. “It’s a trick, boss. The doc here don’t think you’ll hurt him if kids are around.”

“Tape all three of them,” the policeman said, and they heard him move away.

Powell grinned. He reached into his jacket and shoved a roll of tape at Gene. It was duct tape, wide and silver. He made Gene tape the boys’ eyes. They were crying, and Powell made them wipe their faces before Gene put the tape over their eyes. “Not just once. Wrap it again and again.”

Gene obeyed. Next, at Powell’s command, their hands were taped behind their backs.

“Their mouths, too,” Powell said.

But the policeman was closer again now, and he said, “No. You’ll be quiet, won’t you, boys?” They nodded.

“Put your hands behind your back!” Powell said to Gene, and they heard Gene grunt with pain. Powell was angry again; they could feel it, even with their eyes taped shut. The policeman made Powell angry, and Powell took his anger out on one of them at the earliest opportunity. It was a pattern that would be repeated.

“Ready,” Powell said when he had finished.

“Please keep your eyes forward, Gene,” the policeman said.

“Don’t you try to look at his face in the mirror, neither!” Powell added.

The boys could not see anything now, but they heard the car door next to Bret being opened.

“Not the boys,” Gene begged. “Please—”

“Shut up!” Powell said.

“Of course nothing will happen to the boys,” the policeman said. “Did you hear me, Chris?”

“Yes,” Powell said sullenly.

There was a silence, then Powell said, “Yes, sir, I heard you,” in a nervous voice. “Nothing will happen to them boys.”

They heard movement outside the car.

“Oh, Jesus!” Gene said. “Oh, please, don’t hurt Julian—”

“I really don’t want to hear protests from the good doctor,” the policeman said. “This is all his fault, anyway. Tape his mouth, Chris.”

They heard the tape being pulled off the roll, Gene’s pleas for mercy stilled midsentence.

“Scoot over, boys,” the policeman said. “Toward the other door.”

They obeyed, huddling together.

“Wait,” he said. “Chris, tape their hands in front of them, not behind. It’s a long ride back.” But the policeman was the one who gently reached for them, cut the bonds, moved their hands forward, and retaped their wrists. The skin on his hands was rough, but when he touched them he was almost as gentle as Gene had been. “There, that’s better now.”

Next they felt him move off the seat, and soon after, another weight replaced him. Julian. Julian’s head was laid across their laps. Bret was unable to prevent himself from making a small sound of anxiousness, but otherwise their terror kept them silent. They lightly moved their fingers over Julian’s face and hair in a blind quest for reassurance. Bret could feel Julian’s breath, the warmth of his skin. His eyes were taped, but not his mouth. He was alive.

“There now, he’s fine,” the policeman said. “Everyone will be fine very soon, right, Gene?”

Gene made a muffled sound.

“I know you are frightened by all of this, boys,” the policeman said, “but I promise you won’t be hurt.” He paused. “Do you understand what I’m saying, Chris?”

“Yes, sir.”

“My dad…,” Bret dared to say.

“Your dad got a little bump on the head. He’ll wake up soon. Now, Chris, cut the tape from Gene’s hands so he can write the information for us. Eyes front, Gene…. Thank you.” They heard the sound of tape being cut. A rustle of paper.

“You didn’t mean to delay taking our payment to our suppliers, did you, Gene?” the policeman asked. “No, I didn’t think so. And it won’t ever happen again, will it? No. Now, Chris is just going to keep an eye on everyone until I’m satisfied that you haven’t done anything foolish, Gene. Anything else foolish, I should say. Because, Gene, forcing me to deal with you directly like this is very, very foolish. So think carefully before you write.”

They could hear Gene scribbling.

When the scribbling stopped, the policeman said, “Now, before you hand that piece of paper over your shoulder, make certain it will be very easy for me to find the money…. You’re certain? Fine, then.” He paused, then said, “This mushroom-shaped rock — is it easily recognized?”

They heard Gene’s frantic sounds.

“Good. I would hate to have your children terrified — not to mention leaving you and your friend so very uncomfortable — while I searched every last boulder in the gorge. Close your eyes now, Gene, and keep them closed. Chris, tape his hands again, please. His eyes as well.”

The car door closed.

“A word with you when you’ve finished, Chris,” he said, his voice now coming from the driver’s side window. “Oh, one other thing, Gene. Your gambling friends haven’t seen any of this money yet, have they?… No? I’m so happy to hear that. For your sake.”

Christopher Powell closed the car door. “Don’t cry, Daddy,” Sam whispered as they heard Gene Ryan trying to conceal the sobbing sounds he was making behind his gag.

They heard the police car drive off. When Powell came back to their car, he quickly taped the boys’ mouths shut.

“Fuck that old bastard,” Powell said. “I ain’t listening to no kid’s bellyaching.”

Powell drove them to the warehouse. The boys tried to figure out where they were being taken, like kidnap victims did on TV, but they couldn’t keep track. Every time the car would turn, Julian would start to slide off their laps, so they spent most of their time trying to hold on to him.

The car stopped, and they heard the sound of a big metal door sliding open. Powell got back into the car and drove it into the warehouse. He got out again and closed the big door behind them.

First he took Gene. This brought new terror to the boys. Julian started to rouse, though. They heard him groan. He struggled for a moment, then seemed to realize that he was being held by the boys.

“Bret? Sam?”

The boys tried to let him know they heard him, patting him.

“Oh, God… Gene?”

Their hands stilled.

“Gene!” he called out.

Bret moved his fingers over his father’s lips, trying to warn him to be silent. He tried to pull the tape away from his father’s eyes, but soon he heard Powell’s angry steps crossing the room.

“I heard you yellin’,” he said, “so I know you’re awake. That’s good. Easier if I don’t have to lift you. Don’t mess around, or I’ll have to shoot one of these little boys.” Julian was hauled off them. “Stand up,” they heard Powell say.

They heard Powell taking Julian away. Bret tried to pull the tape away from his own eyes but was making no progress. There were too many layers. He felt Sam nudging him, pushing him with his hands. As clearly as if Sam were speaking to him, he knew that Sam was urging him out of the car, wanting to escape. Bret was scared, but Sam, as always, was brave.

So without knowing with any certainty what was beyond the car, Bret scooted along the seat until he felt his feet hit the wooden floor. He staggered, then turned toward the back of the car, feeling his way along it. Sam was soon behind him.

Bret remembered the door being shut behind the car. He kept moving toward the back of the car, then tried reaching out with his hands. Nothingness. He crouched down. The whole building reeked of old oil and grease, but this close to the floor, the smell was almost overwhelming.

He came to a wall — no! It was the door. He could feel the cold air coming in from beneath it. He straightened again, tried to call to Sam. But Sam was moving away from him.

“Hey!” Powell’s voice called. “Come here, you little son of a bitch!”

Sam stumbled. Bret heard him fall. Sam made a sound in his throat. Bret knew what Sam meant to tell him. “Run!” he was saying. “Run, Bret!”

Bret fumbled along the door, trying to find a latch, a handle. He pictured himself in the car, hearing the sliding sound. Right to left. Now, from the inside, it would be left to right — the handle would be on the left. He heard Powell laughing.

“Come here,” Powell called, but Bret realized that he was talking to Sam. Bret found the handle and pulled. Nothing. He heard the sound of tape ripping, Sam crying out in pain. He stopped, tried to turn toward the sound.

“Run, Bret!” Sam cried. “Run!”

Bret found the hasp. Miraculously, it seemed to him, no lock was on it.

“Come back here now or I’ll hurt your friend,” Powell said.

“Go, Bret, don’t worry, just go!” Sam commanded.

Powell started laughing. Bret unlatched the door. He felt sick to his stomach, worried about what would happen to Sam and their fathers, but he pulled on the door with all his might. It budged only about an inch.

He heard Powell running straight at him. He tried to duck, but Powell caught him, grabbed him with bruising strength. Powell pulled at the tape around Bret’s eyes, which in turn tore at Bret’s hair and skin.

Bret blinked and looked up into Powell’s dirty, wild-eyed face, which was glowing red. Taillight red. Belatedly Bret realized Powell had left the car lights on. Alone, those lights might not have been enough, but because the car doors were open, the dome light was on — just enough of a soft glow came from the car to illuminate the area near the warehouse door. Had the boys shut the car door, they might not have been seen.

Except for the area illuminated by the dome light and headlights of the car, it was dark in the cavernous brick building. Later they would learn that the building had been used for many purposes, its design changed for each tenant. Most recently it had been used to store surplus machinery; the greasy smell came from lubricants that had drained out of the old machines and soaked into the building’s wooden floor. The warehouse had been abandoned for at least five years.

Powell dragged Bret to the place where Sam, still blindfolded, had been tethered to a post. Powell was hurting Bret, pulling his arm up hard behind him. Bret made a whimpering sound behind the tape over his mouth. Sam heard it and shouted, “Leave him alone!” Powell slapped Sam hard. Sam stopped shouting, but he refused to cry. Powell untied him and made Bret lead him along.

Powell took them to a doorway. It opened onto a set of wooden steps that went into a dimly lit basement. He told them to go down the steps. He shut the thick wooden door behind them.

Gene and Julian were each tied to a post. The posts were about six feet apart in the center of the room, and the men were tied so that they faced one another. Their faces were no longer taped.

When the boys came down the stairs, Bret saw both fear and relief on the faces of their fathers. Gene was crying. Julian tried to smile at Bret, but it didn’t look like a real smile.

The boys were taken to a wall. Leather bands with thick iron rings attached to them were fastened tightly to the boys’ slender wrists and ankles; each iron ring was padlocked to a heavy chain. The other end of each chain was fastened to an eyelet in the wall. Only when all the padlocks were snapped closed did Powell pull the tape off Sam’s eyes and Bret’s mouth. The chains were just long enough to allow some movement, but the boys staggered under their weight. Sam immediately pulled at his, tried to reach his father. Although Gene was tied to the closer of the two posts, the chains were far too short to allow that.

“These were gonna be on you,” Powell said to the men, laughing. “Bought ’em at a sex shop and rigged ’em up myself. Long time ago.” His thoughts seemed to wander, then he smiled at Gene. “Figured it would bother you more to see these two little weasels in ’em than to be in ’em yourself. And I see I’m right.”

Powell began pacing back and forth across the basement. There was a sleeping bag on a cot against the far wall and a small wooden table. A portable, battery-operated lantern sat on the table, along with a rumpled canvas bag and wadded-up paper sacks from a fast-food place. The lantern light cast long, strange shadows. This room didn’t smell like oil. It smelled like sweat and old hamburgers.

“Daddy, why is he doing this to us?” Sam asked.

Powell laughed again. “Tell him, Gene. Tell him what a great guy his old man is.”

“It’s all my fault, Sam,” Gene choked out. “God forgive me, it’s all my fault.”

“Gene—” Julian said.

“Shut the fuck up, Neukirk,” Powell said. “Let the doc make his confession.”

But Gene was silent. Powell went over to the canvas bag and exchanged his gun for a long knife. He moved over to Julian and, before anyone knew what he was planning, made a small cut on Julian’s arm.

Bret started screaming. Gene and Sam were shouting.

“Shut up!” Powell yelled, moving back toward Julian with the knife.

They were all silent.

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” Julian said, but his face was pale. Sam moved over to Bret, held on to him.

“Now, Gene, I asked you to make your confession,” Powell said. “Tell these little faggot kids of yours what you did.”

“No one should ever call anyone a faggot,” Sam said, repeating — verbatim — one part of a lecture they had received not long ago.

Bret, who had not been able to take his eyes from his father’s bleeding cut, was terrified that Powell would slice at Julian again because of Sammy’s remark.

But Powell just laughed. “You admit being faggots, huh?”

“No. We’re just like brothers,” Sam said, still holding Bret. “Brothers don’t have sex with each other. But even if we were gay, you shouldn’t say the word ‘faggot.’ It’s bad manners.”

Powell howled with laughter. “Man, you are a piece of work, kid.”

“I’m very proud of you, Sam,” Gene said quietly, attracting everyone’s attention. Bret realized that Gene’s voice was different. He sounded stronger, as if being proud of Sam had made him braver. “But I’m not so proud of myself. You’re right. You and Bret are like brothers, just as Julian and I are like brothers. It’s also right that it’s my fault we are here — partly because I didn’t confide in Julian.”

“It doesn’t matter now,” Julian said.

“It’s the only thing that matters,” Gene said. “Boys, I want to tell you a story — a true story. Julian knows some of it, but not all of it.”

Powell backed off from the men and sat on the cot. “I’m gonna enjoy the hell outta this,” he said.

Julian looked over at Bret and Sam. He mouthed the words, “Be brave.”

So Gene began to tell them about gambling and losing money. He talked about being afraid of the men he owed money to, of what they might do if he didn’t pay them back. He talked about Powell approaching him with the chance to make easy money.

“Chris knew a man who wanted something flown to the United States from Mexico,” he said.

“What was it, Daddy?” Sam asked.

Gene hesitated.

Powell jumped to his feet, knife in hand. He swaggered over to Gene. “What was it, Daddy?” he mimicked.

“Cocaine,” Gene whispered.

Bret saw Sam’s eyes widen in disbelief. Bret shouted what Sam had wanted to say. “You’re lying!”

“Bret!” Julian said sharply.

Gene was shaking his head. “No, Bret, I’m sorry, I’m not.”

“Boys,” Julian said quickly, “this is a secret. You understand? No one ever hears about this. No one! Not ever.”

Powell turned and slashed him again, the other arm this time. In the next instant, he cut Gene.

“You two are pissing me off!” Powell shouted. “Now get on with the story, Gene. Or next time, I cut one of these little babies over here.”

Shakily Gene went on. He told of flights to Mexico in the Cessna 210 — flights the boys thought were missions of mercy to help people too poor to pay for doctors. Yes, he really did help the poor, he told them when Sam asked. But while the other doctors were there only to help, he was also doing illegal business on the side. That’s why he always went on his own, alone, and the others went in groups. If he met up with other doctors, he told them he flew alone because of his insurance, but that wasn’t true.

He picked up the drugs — marijuana or cocaine or heroin — in Mexico. He would then fly the plane to the Kern Valley Airport, near Lake Isabella, and drive down to Bakersfield from there. Powell would unload the drugs and leave money for Gene in a special locked box. It was a lot of money. It helped him get out of debt quickly.

Although at first he did not handle any payments to the suppliers, eventually Gene was entrusted with taking large sums of cash to Mexico.

Now he was no longer afraid of the men who had tried to collect his gambling debts. He was afraid of Powell and Powell’s boss. He was being asked to make more and more frequent flights. Between the flights and his schedule at the hospital, he was never home. He was always fatigued, unable to enjoy time with his friends or family. He was worried that he would be caught. He began to see how foolish he had been.

He went to seek help from the man who had always been his best friend. Julian said that no matter what happened, he would always stand by him.

“And I will,” Julian said when Gene reached this part of the story.

“And I’ll always stand by Sam,” Bret said, because he knew his friend was feeling bewildered and ashamed.

Julian smiled at Bret. Gene began weeping again.

“Very fucking touching,” Powell said, “but you ain’t finished.”

Julian had suggested he take some time off, Gene said. Julian had seen that Gene was exhausted, not able to think clearly. It was a complex problem. They could spend some time talking things over once Gene got some rest.

So they planned the fishing trip, and as the day grew closer Gene found himself excited at the prospect of spending time with his friend and their sons. He worked a long shift at the hospital, trying to make sure everything would go smoothly while he was gone for the week. Then his pager went off; the code on it signified a call from Powell. It meant Powell wanted a flight.

Gene drove up to Lake Isabella, to the airport, but as he sat in the plane, weary in more ways than one, he changed his mind. He shut down the engines and was going to leave the money on the plane, but he realized his “false start” had attracted some attention. He took the money, put it in his car, and drove to Powell’s house. He planned to tell Powell that he wanted out but Powell wasn’t home. He tried calling him but only reached the answering machine. He left a message, saying he hadn’t gone on the flight, that he needed to talk to Powell. He headed back to Bakersfield, but began to feel afraid and confused, unsure of what to do.

“Forget all the excuses,” Powell said. “You did a dumb-ass thing.”

As he drove, Gene said, he decided he didn’t like the idea of having this kind of money near his family, where someone might hurt them in order to take it.

Powell laughed over that.

“I decided not to take the money home,” Gene said. “But I was more than halfway to Bakersfield and too tired to drive all the way back to Lake Isabella and wait for Powell, so I pulled off at the side of the road and buried the money.”

“I go to this plane,” Powell said, “thinking maybe he’s left the money there. And what do I find, huh? What do I find?”

“An empty plane,” Gene said. “But—”

“Fuckin’ A, an empty plane!” Powell started pacing.

“I called you again when I got home and told you where I’d left the money!” Gene said.

“Not so’s I could find it.”

“I didn’t know!” Gene said. “Would I be driving toward your house if I thought you hadn’t found the money? Would I have my children in the car with me? I wasn’t trying to escape!”

“Shut up!” Powell raged. “I ain’t stupid! You fucked up!”

He began pacing again.

As time went on, Powell became more restless. The tempo of his pacing increased. He said it was taking too long for the boss to get there. Something was wrong. Maybe Gene had never hidden any money there after all. In time he convinced himself that Gene had set a trap.

That’s when the killing began. He cut the men loose, but he didn’t give them a real chance to fight. They had been tied up for hours by then, and the circulation had gone out of their hands and feet. And each time Powell inflicted a wound, he became more excited, more frenzied.

Julian died first, then Gene. The boys were screaming. Powell turned on them. He dropped the knife and shook them, but still they screamed. He picked up a piece of pipe, was going to hit Bret with it. But at the last minute Sam shielded Bret, who was smaller. That was how Sam’s arm was broken.

Sam yelled, “You promised the policeman you wouldn’t hurt us!”

Powell stopped then, as quickly as he had begun. He looked around the room in surprise, as if a stranger had done this terrible work. He hurriedly mounted the stairs, closed the basement door. Faintly they heard the sliding metal door open. They did not hear it close.

The boys screamed for help until they were hoarse.

The lantern batteries, already weak by the time Powell left, dimmed rapidly; the room grew darker and darker, until it was pitch black.

The boys held on to one another.

They settled into a state that was almost like being asleep, dreamlike and distant, only Sam’s occasional moan of pain bringing Bret back to the present. They did not know how much time had passed when the basement door opened and a flashlight shone into the dark. They stayed silent.

“Powell?”

The policeman.

The chains made a rattling sound. They were both shaking.

The light glanced onto the floor and then into their faces. They were too exhausted from standing on their feet for hours in the heavy chains to raise their hands to shield their eyes from the light.

The policeman made a keening sound, a sound not unlike the ones they had made when they’d still had voices to cry out with. Then he was gone.

Bret felt as if he had been awakened again. He could feel the cold of the room, smell the blood, feel Sam shiver. He began to wonder if anyone would ever find them. It was then that the door opened and another policeman came in.

His name was Frank Harriman. He left them only long enough to radio for help, which was long enough for the boys to decide that no one would ever believe the truth.

When Frank Harriman came back he tried to free them, but the swelling in their hands and feet had made the leather too tight to cut. When he saw he couldn’t free them without hurting them, he stayed with them, there in the cold darkness, with the stench all around, waiting for help. He braced his back against the wall and lifted them carefully onto his lap, cradling their arms so that the strain of holding the chains was finally relieved. He didn’t mind that they were silent or that they had blood on them.

He was young, younger than their fathers. And he was taller. But something about him reminded Bret and Sam of Julian. That’s why the boys let him hold them until their mothers could be there. They did not let any of the other men take them from him, even after they were able to leave the basement — not even the one who put a splint on Sam’s arm.

Frank Harriman wouldn’t let anyone separate them. When the others saw that the boys wouldn’t answer questions, the others were upset. He made the ones who were upset leave the boys alone. He knew they were tired and weak and afraid. He didn’t complain. He held them. Frank Harriman, and no one else.

They didn’t trust him completely, but they trusted no one else at all.

18

THE DARK-HAIRED YOUNG MAN stood with his left arm extended to the side, his open left hand palm up. In his right hand he held a pack of cards. In one smooth, even movement he spread the cards from the palm of his left hand up the length of his arm to his elbow. With a grace that belied his quickness, he lifted his left arm, rolled his palm downward, and turned his body to the left. For a brief instant the cards stood in the air as one unit, then cascaded in an improbable, fluid motion to his waiting right hand, where he caught them perfectly.

Dressed less outlandishly than he was when Frank last saw him — on Dana Ross’s porch — the magician wore jeans and a blue T-shirt. He repeated the catch again and again, never failing to spread the pack smoothly, never dropping a card, never seeming to use the concentration that must have been required.

Frank watched silently from the bed. His headache was less sharp now, not nearly as sharp as his disappointment in realizing that he had slept again. The magician’s card flourishes had drawn his eye when he first awakened, but now he spent time taking in all that had changed during his most recent drug-induced nap.

The curtain that had surrounded the bed was gone. The room beyond it was an odd one, of soft bending walls. As he awakened more fully, he came to the conclusion that although he was in the same bed, he was, inexplicably, inside a large tent. He had been rolled onto his right side. The IV bottle had been attached again but seemed to be clamped shut — he couldn’t be sure. His hands were still tethered, but he could move his legs. As he did, he saw that he was no longer dressed in the hospital gown. He now wore a set of surgeon’s scrubs.

Without looking at Frank, the magician said, “Please don’t bother trying to fake sleep again. You have too much trouble staying awake to pull it off. At this rate, we’ll never get to talk to one another.”

Frank didn’t reply, but he kept his eyes open.

The young man stopped, set down the pack, and turned toward the bed. “On my tenth birthday, you gave me a magic kit. Do you remember?”

“Bret?” he asked in utter disbelief. He saw the young man flinch at that disbelief, and his long-carried sense of protectiveness toward Bret Neukirk made him sorry for not hiding his reaction. But confusion soon overran regret — he could not reconcile what was happening to him now with his memory of the silent young boy.

I’m still dreaming, he told himself. The drugs—

“Yes,” the young man said, “I’m Bret. I’m sorry about all of this, Detective Harriman. I really am.”

“Sorry? Bret, for chrissakes—”

“I’m afraid you’re our hostage, sir.”

He could only repeat numbly, “Our?”

“Samuel. Me. Hocus.”

Frank shut his eyes. Clenched them shut. This isn’t happening, he told himself. This isn’t happening.

“Are you in pain?” Bret asked worriedly.

Oh, yes, Frank thought. I’m in pain. Not Bret. Not Sam. He opened his eyes. “Why?”

“I made a promise,” he said. “Samuel and I promised something to each other. We would see justice done, no matter how long it took.”

“Justice? But Powell is dead—”

“Yes,” Bret answered, watching him closely. “But not the policeman.”

Frank tried to read Bret’s expression. “You want to kill me?”

Bret smiled, then looked away quickly. His voice — a voice Frank had never heard speak more than a few words — was full of emotion. “I knew you wouldn’t know. I knew it. I told Samuel, but Samuel is less trusting — not that I blame him.”

“Wouldn’t know what?” Frank asked, his headache suddenly fierce.

“A little later on, I’ll give you something to read — our story. It explains everything. It’s the one we sent to Irene.”

“You’ve talked to Irene?”

“Yes. You have, too, actually,” he said. “I know you find it hard to believe,” he added quickly. “In your position, I would feel the same. When you spoke to her, Samuel had given you a drug that often makes people forget what has happened while they are under its influence.”

Calm down. Calm down.

“This is a lot to take in all at once, I suppose,” Bret said. “But I assure you, we will not harm Irene. She’s not a target. We didn’t want to hurt you, either. I want you to be free when this is all over.”

“And Sam? Does he want the same thing?”

Bret hesitated. “Well, of course, that’s the ideal situation.”

“And if things don’t work out ideally?”

“You shouldn’t think about such things.”

“Forgive me, Bret, but it’s hard to think about anything else.”

“I’m going to do everything I can to get you out of here alive.”

He could find no real comfort in that. He began to take comfort instead in the sharp aching of his head, reasoning that this much pain meant the drugs no longer had so strong a hold on him.

To survive, he knew, he needed information. And he needed to make sure Bret remained concerned about him.

“Where is Sam?” he asked.

“With his girlfriend. He doesn’t like to be called Sam, by the way. He goes by Samuel now.”

“Okay, I’ll try to remember that. ‘Detective Harriman’ is a little formal. Why don’t you call me ‘Frank’?”

Bret hesitated. “Maybe when it’s just the two of us here,” he said.

Frank shrugged one shoulder, as if it didn’t matter. But he thought of the implications of Bret’s statement even as he said casually, “I’m more comfortable here on my side. Are you the one who moved me around?”

Bret nodded. “It’s not good for you to stay in one position. And I thought you would like these clothes better. I — I hope that doesn’t embarrass you.”

Having his clothes changed while he slept? It humiliated him. But he said, “No, not at all. The other outfit was embarrassing. I didn’t like the gown much.”

“I knew you wouldn’t!”

“You were right.”

“I know you don’t like being restrained, either… Frank.” He said the name timidly, trying it out.

“You’re right, Bret. I know you understand why.”

He nodded. “I do, Frank. I don’t like to see anyone tied up. I don’t even like to see dogs tied up. Or animals in cages.”

“Was the animal shelter your idea?”

“The shelter,” he said, “but not the killing.” Anxiously he added, “Do you believe me?”

“Yes,” Frank said quite truthfully. He remembered the hesitancy Bret had shown at Dana Ross’s place. Samuel had been the one who did all the rough work.

“Maybe later, I’ll be able to convince Samuel that you should be allowed to walk around. He thinks we’ll be in danger from you if you aren’t restrained.”

“What do you think?”

“Oh, you can’t leave this building unless we let you out, so it would be foolish to try to harm one of us. And we have some devices that we could put on you that would discourage escape attempts, or violence, but that would allow you to move about.” Seeing Frank’s eyes widen, he added quickly, “I wouldn’t put them on you without your consent, of course. And you would know the penalty for breaking the rules beforehand.”

When Frank didn’t reply, Bret added, “I don’t really like the idea myself — but as an alternative to being tied to the bed?”

“Yes, you’re right.”

A silence stretched between them. Frank said, “So Samuel has a girlfriend?”

Bret nodded.

“It’s hard for me to realize that you’re both men now. It’s been a long time.”

“Yes.”

“What’s the girlfriend like?”

Bret shrugged. “He doesn’t love her. She’s just someone to have sex with.”

“You don’t like her?”

“I don’t like or dislike her. She doesn’t really matter. I feel a little sorry for her, if anything, because I think she really cares about Samuel.”

“Are you sure he doesn’t care about her?”

“Oh, he cares, but only because he likes having sex with her.”

“Do you have a girlfriend?”

“No. But it doesn’t matter. I mean, I think I would have pursued it before now if it did. I’ve been attracted to women, but I didn’t want a relationship to just be something… passing. Do you understand?”

“I think so. But why would it have to be passing? Maybe it would last longer.”

“No, it couldn’t. But let’s not talk about that now.” He looked at his watch. “We only have another hour before I have to start the drip again.”

“Please — I don’t need the drugs—”

“Let’s not talk about it.”

Frank was silent, trying to fight a sense of panic. Awake, he stood some sort of chance. With the drugs….

“Tell me about your life,” Bret was saying. When Frank hesitated Bret said, “I mean, what’s happened to you since we last saw you?”

“You seem to know a lot about me already,” Frank said, hearing the anger, the resentment, over his captivity come to the surface. He knew he should not show it. But it was there.

Bret shook his head. “No, those are just facts.”

“You want lies?”

“No,” Bret said, turning red. “I mean, facts don’t tell a person anything. I know you moved to Las Piernas. I know you are a homicide detective and that Pete Baird is your partner and that your wife is named Irene and that she’s a reporter. So what? It’s like reading tombstones in a graveyard. ‘Born.’ ‘Died.’ ‘Beloved daughter of…’ So what?” He paused, then said, “Are you thirsty?”

“Yes,” Frank said, surprised by the question.

“I’m sorry, I should have asked earlier.” He moved to a small table near the bed, then brought a water glass and a straw over to the rail, helped Frank to take a drink. It was cool and good.

“Now,” Bret said, setting down the glass. “We aren’t going to have much time together, and when this is over, we’ll never see each other again. I’ve wondered about you, Frank Harriman. Are you happier in Las Piernas than in Bakersfield? Do you like what you do? Does it bother you, working in homicide? Is Pete Baird your favorite partner, or do you wish you worked with someone else? Are you glad you married Irene? Do you miss your father?”

Frank stared at him a moment, then said, “Yes. Yes, I do miss him. I think about him often.”

And he began to talk to Bret about his father and Las Piernas and even about Irene, not noticing when Bret reached over and started the IV again, until he was feeling far too drowsy to fight it. The water, he thought belatedly. The water was drugged.

He was not sure if the voice was within the dream or not. He heard a door close and thought it strange that a tent would have a door that closed just like a metal door. He was thinking about that when the voice said, “What the hell have you done?”

“You’ve been wrong about him,” Bret said.

Everything after that was most definitely within a dream.

19

THE LAST PAGE OF THE FAX contained only a few brief sentences:

As for the contents of the package you received, just remember — there is more where that came from.

It may help you to know that Julian Neukirk was six feet tall; the policeman was taller.

When you learn the identity of the policeman, place an ad in the Las Piernas News Express, in the personals, to read: “John Oakhurst, come home.”

Detective Harriman will receive increasing amounts of morphine over the next few days. He will stop receiving the morphine when we are satisfied that you have correctly identified our enemy. We suggest you hurry.

“Let’s go,” I said to Cassidy. “There’s a lot to be done.”

He started the car. “What do you think of the story?”

“ ‘Father’s Day’?”

“Yes.”

“I think they were trying to tell the truth — at least as they remember it. They didn’t try to apologize for Gene Ryan. Other than that… well, I’d say Bret wrote it.”

“Why Bret?” he asked.

“Even though it’s in third person, everything is from his point of view.”

Cassidy nodded. “Any idea who John Oakhurst is?”

“No, although the name seems familiar.”

“To me, too,” he said. “I just can’t remember where I’ve heard it.”

“Maybe it’s just a made-up name.”

“Not with this group.”

“No. No, I suppose not… I understand why they want me to find this cop. But it’s so hard for me to understand how they feel about Frank.”

“I’m not sure they understand that themselves. Remember the last line? About trust? If nothing else, we can learn a lot about them from this story.”

I went ahead and asked the question I was afraid to hear answered. “How long do you suppose it will be before they’re giving him a fatal level of morphine?”

He shrugged. “They could do it in one injection if they set their minds to it. But if they go slowly enough, he’ll build a tolerance.”

My mind snagged on the words “one injection” as surely as if they had been made of barbed wire.

He picked up his cellular phone and dialed Bea’s number. “Mrs. Harriman? Tom Cassidy. Sorry to keep you waiting so long, ma’am. We’re on our way back to the house now.” He listened, then said, “I’m sorry to hear you were troubled. Yes, ma’am. Couldn’t have handled it better myself.”

He hung up and said, “You guessed right about the Californian. They’ve already sent a reporter out. Your mother-in-law slammed the door in the man’s face. Surprised it took the paper this long. I guess your buddy the librarian must have struggled with his conscience for a while.”

“Conscience? Yeah, right. Brandon just spent the afternoon wondering which would make his boss angrier: his admission that he let us into the library or getting beat by an out-of-town paper on a story he had a jump start on.”

“Did he choose right?”

“I’d say so. Is Bea upset about this?”

“Not really. Greg Bradshaw called one of his friends on the Bakersfield PD, and they’ve got someone watching the house now, making sure the family isn’t disturbed.”

Cassidy’s cellular phone rang. He answered with his name, made a few noncommittal sounds, then said, “That’s great, Hank. Yes, I’ll have the fax set up, too. I’ve got quite a bit of new information to send you.” He told Hank about the Californian’s visit to Bea Harriman’s house. There was a pause, then he frowned. “Sure, put him on.” Another pause. “Yes, sir.” He glanced at his watch, listened for some time. “Yes, I’ll tell her.”

He hung up. “Bret Neukirk — no surprise — is a computer wizard. Something of a wizard in any case — he’s an accomplished magician. And Samuel Ryan is an EMT — emergency medical technician. He’s been working as a paramedic.”

“That explains how he had access to drugs.”

“Made it easier for him to steal them, anyway,” Cassidy said. “One other thing. Captain asked me to tell you that the press conference is set for a little later this evening — eight-thirty. Supposed to give the electronic media time to fit it into the late evening news.”

I glanced at my watch. “That’s only a couple of hours from now. I’ve got to call John. What information will the department be releasing?”

“Not much. We’ll announce that Frank was taken hostage. We’ll release descriptions of Bret Neukirk and Samuel Ryan and announce that they are wanted by police. We’ll say we believe they are in Southern California, probably the Las Piernas area, but they could be anywhere. That’s about it.”

I looked at the envelopes on the front seat between us, then stared out the car windows for a few minutes. It was dusk now, the last of the setting sun reflected in the west-facing windows of some of the buildings that lined the street ahead of us. I watched the cars moving alongside ours, in the other lanes of the Stockdale Highway. Families. Couples. Singles. I wished them all a perfectly ordinary, boring evening. Somebody ought to have one.

“I need to find a phone,” I said.

“I don’t suppose you want to use mine?”

“No, thanks.” I told him what I was planning to tell John.

He sighed. “I guess almost all of that will be coming out in the paper here or in Riverside. But — hell, I hope the captain has a good breakfast before he reads the Express tomorrow.”

After a moment he asked, “You covered Bakersfield PD when you were a reporter here?”

“The crime beat. It’s not exactly the same as reporting on the department itself. I was just covering the blotter for the most part.”

“Ever hear any rumors of somebody in the department doing better than they should on a cop’s salary?”

I shook my head. “No. Nothing that reached me. I was here when things were starting to look better after a long history of problems.”

“What kinds of problems?”

“Oh, that goes back even to the city’s early years — one of my favorite stories about Bakersfield is that the early citizens once voted for disincorporation in order to get rid of a local marshal.”

“Disincorporation — you mean they stopped being a city?”

“Officially, yes. Apparently, this marshal considered himself king — had a habit of harassing anybody and everybody. That was back in the 1870s. They reincorporated later on, but there were constant problems between the police and city hall. Frank once told me that not long after his dad joined the department — in the late 1940s — the chief of police was suspended and charged with taking vice payoffs. He was found not guilty. A lot of people will tell you that although there was real corruption back then, the chief was just the victim of politicians.”

“Anything more recent?” Cassidy asked.

“By the time I started working here, the department had a new chief. He once said he had the ‘dubious privilege of arresting more police officers than any other chief.’ ”

“There was some housecleaning going on?”

“Exactly. Complaints had been made against the department, just as there are against almost all police departments — some deserved, some not. But this new chief made a real effort to clean up the Bakersfield PD, and during his years, there weren’t charges of corruption at higher levels, as there had been before.”

He pulled into a gas station and waited while I used the phone. I tried John’s office number, on a hunch that he would still be in. It paid off.

“I wondered if I’d be hearing from you,” he said angrily. “You talk to Mark yet?”

“You know damned well I haven’t. I’ve got an offer to make.”

“Talk to Mark.”

“The paper undoubtedly sent Mark to cover the press conference. Now, we can sit here and play ‘come to the principal’s office’ on the phone, or you can listen to my offer.”

“I do have other options.”

“Yes, you can fire me. Want to fire me right now, John? To be honest, it would probably be a relief. I could stop thinking about Will Rogers.”

“Will Rogers?”

“Never mind. Am I fired?”

I suppose the silence was supposed to make me nervous. It just made me furious.

“No, you aren’t fired. Not yet.”

“Then I’ve got some information for you now, and an exclusive for you later, in exchange for as much breathing room as you can bear to give me.”

“Do I have a choice?” he groused.

“Not really,” I said, “unless we’re back to square one.”

“What’s the information?”

“We have a deal?”

“Yes.”

“This all started in Riverside. That’s where things went bad. No one else has that.”

“Is that where you are now?”

“No.”

Silence, then, “Any possibility of an exchange for Lang and Colson?”

“I can’t answer that, John, but you probably don’t need me to tell you what the policy on hostage exchanges is.”

“I’m sorry, Irene,” he said, his voice low, as if all the anger he had been burning up with a moment before had gone out of him. My own anger abated, replaced by a sense of guilt. I didn’t feel good about withholding information from John; I knew that Lang and Colson seemed to be of no consequence to Hocus, that their interests seemed to lie elsewhere. When I didn’t say anything, he added, “You know… well, you know I like Frank.”

“Yes, I know.” I took a deep breath. “The press conference will tell you a lot, but the radio and TV folks will be able to make use of most of it before the paper comes out tomorrow morning. But you’ve got the information on the car, which is strictly yours at this point. If you get someone out to Riverside, you’ll have an angle that’s all your own. And one other thing—”

He waited.

“One other thing, but when I tell it to you, promise me — I’m begging here, John — promise me you won’t crowd me. If I see a reporter from the Express in my rearview mirror just once, I swear to Jesus I will give this story to someone else.”

“There are times, Kelly, when you sorely try my—”

“A deal, remember?”

“All right, all right.”

“People in Bakersfield are going to recognize the names of the hostage takers.”

“Bakersfield?”

“I’m fairly sure the Californian is going to have someone digging all of this up soon. I was in their library this afternoon, and here’s what I learned.” I told him about the Father’s Day murders — as they were reported in the Californian. I didn’t mention Hocus’s claims about Powell’s accomplice, or the fax, or the vial of blood. I gave him only what I was sure would be revived in the Bakersfield media.

“Whew,” he said. “So what’s the connection? If Frank rescued them….”

I didn’t answer.

“You know more than you’re telling me, Kelly.”

“Breathing room, John.”

“Shit. When do I hear from you again?”

“I don’t know. Maybe not until this is over.”

“Kelly—”

“Gotta go, John. Bye.”

Cassidy didn’t try to talk to me when I got back to the car. I appreciated it. As we made our way to Bea’s house, I wondered if she’d like to slam the door in my face, too.

I tried to remember what orange blossoms smelled like.

I was wrong about Bea. She was fussing over me from the moment I walked in the door. “I hope that reporter parked out front didn’t bother you,” she said, putting an arm around my shoulders as if I were not of the same genus and species as the fellow from the Californian.

“No,” I said, “he didn’t make it out of his car in time to question us.”

“Mike and Cassie went home,” she said. “They’ve got two little ones,” she explained to Cassidy. “I invited Greg to stay for supper.”

I watched Cassidy, who had warned me, just before we got out of the car, to follow his lead where Greg Bradshaw was concerned. Cassidy had his hands full of cases from the trunk of the car, but he nodded toward the Bear.

“Glad we’ll have a chance to get to know one another better,” he said.

Bradshaw smiled. “Yes, me too. Need help with those cases?”

“Oh, I’ll manage, thanks. Mind if I set up camp in that back room, Mrs. Harriman?”

“Not at all — Oh, that reminds me. Irene, Rachel called. She’s bringing some overnight things up here for you. I told her to plan on staying over, but I think she wants to get back home to Pete.”

“I can understand that,” I said. “Need any help in the kitchen?”

“Oh, it’s just roasted chicken. Won’t be ready for about another forty minutes.”

She sat down next to Greg again, and he took her hand. I wondered briefly about the gesture, then decided not to read too much into it. She was worried, I knew, and I regretted making her wait so long to hear more about what had happened to her son. I asked her to catch me up on news of her grandchildren. It made better than average small talk.

Cassidy came back into the room and wandered over to the mantel, picked up a photograph. Bea had family photographs everywhere, but the one he held was my favorite. Frank’s favorite, too, I remembered. In it Frank stood next to his father, whom he strongly resembled. They were both in uniform. Brian Harriman’s arm was around his son’s shoulders, his pride evident.

My thoughts wandered for a moment to the missing photographs, the ones that might have included his sister Diana.

“The people who have Frank didn’t choose him at random,” Cassidy said, gently replacing the father-son photograph, bringing my attention back to Bea and Greg. “He was deliberately targeted.”

Cassidy did his best to prepare them for the upcoming press conference, although he provided them with only a little more information than I had given John.

When he first mentioned the Ryan-Neukirk murders, only Greg seemed to recognize the case by name. But the moment he said “two young boys in a warehouse basement,” Bea drew a sharp breath.

Although he talked about the Ryan-Neukirk case, Cassidy never mentioned the possibility of a cop’s involvement. Apparently sure of my cooperation, he didn’t try to cue me to keep my mouth shut about that. No quelling glances, no phrases with double meaning, no hand signals.

If you surveyed everyone who’s ever known me, friends and enemies alike, and asked them to write down ten words that describe me, “obedient” wouldn’t make anybody’s list. So why, I wondered, was I quietly listening to Cassidy deceive people I cared about?

The easy answer was that Frank’s life was at stake. The harder one was that Cassidy’s seed of doubt about Greg Bradshaw was taking root. Greg was silver haired by the time I first met him; he was easily over six feet tall. For the moment I was going to trust Cassidy’s judgment. If he was wrong, though, and we were wasting an opportunity to get the Bear’s help, would I be able to forgive myself?

I watched Cassidy, grudgingly admiring his ability to win their confidence. He sat there, speaking in that soft and slow drawl, his voice and demeanor lulling them into matching his own calmness at a time when panic and dismay beckoned. Nothing in those slate blue eyes gave away worry or anxiety or even the weariness he must have been feeling after a long, demanding day.

I saw their tension easing as he spoke. Here was someone in command of the situation, their faces said, someone who knew what was best.

“I retired not too long after those murders,” Greg said, breaking into my reverie. He was speaking to Cassidy, his voice gruff with emotion. “Within the next year or so, Gus and Brian left, too.”

“Cookie retired then, didn’t he?” Bea asked.

“No, he was already retired.” Greg frowned. “At least, I think he was. But you know Cookie — he kept up on things. Brian was the same way after he left.”

“Forgive me,” Cassidy said. “Brian is—?”

“Frank’s dad,” Greg said. “He’s in the picture you were holding. Passed away about four years ago. Cookie’s real name is Nat. Nat Cook.”

“Our extended family, Detective Cassidy,” Bea said. “Along with Greg, Gus Matthews and Nat Cook were my husband’s closest friends. They all worked with him on the Bakersfield Police Department.”

“We all hated the Ryan-Neukirk case,” Greg said. “Those kids — it was one of those things that just made you feel too old and tired for the job. I was thinking of retiring anyway, but I still wasn’t sure I wanted out. Afraid retirement would be too dull for me. There would be action somewhere, and I wouldn’t be around to see it, you understand?”

Cassidy nodded. “Sure.”

“Then the Ryan-Neukirk case came along, and I just said, ‘Okay, that’s it, I’ve had enough.’ It was like that.”

“I can see how it would be,” Cassidy said. “It was hard to just read about it in the old newspaper articles. Must have been pretty rough to be there.”

“It was,” Greg said. “I knew that was going to be a bad one from the beginning. I don’t remember where I was exactly, but I was out in a patrol car somewhere. What I remember so clearly is — I heard Frank making the call from this warehouse — and my God, his voice — I don’t think I’ll forget Frank’s voice on that call as long as I live. Frank’s quiet, you know?”

He looked at Cassidy, who nodded.

“The boy’s a cool one,” he went on, “like you. He wasn’t panicked. He reported it perfectly. But… I don’t know… it was in his voice. He just sounded like he was… like he was… wounded. You know what I mean?”

“Yes,” Cassidy said simply, but there was something different in the way he was looking at Greg now.

“I went right over. Frank had gone back down in that basement, to stay with those kids. Even after we got the detectives and a doctor there, those boys wouldn’t let any of the rest of us near them. They were terrified of everyone except Frank. They held on to him for dear life. Frank was down there with them until they could get the chains off them. Down there in that damned basement.

“He had tried to get the chains off with a bolt cutter, but that didn’t work. He told me later that he had only gone to his car once, just long enough to make the call, get the bolt cutter and a first-aid kit. Before he went to the car, he told the boys that he’d be right back, but they started crying. They hadn’t been crying before then. So after he got back, he told them he wouldn’t leave them again until their mothers came for them. And he didn’t. But Lord Almighty….”

“Their mothers? Did Frank know the dead men were their fathers?” I asked.

Greg shook his head. “Not right away. The bodies were cut up so bad, I don’t blame Frank for not seeing a resemblance between the boys and the fathers. And the boys didn’t speak — they would nod or point — that’s all. Frank asked them if they knew the men, they nodded yes — went on like that. So before too long, he realizes they’ve been in there with their own fathers’ bodies — blood everywhere — and I don’t know, I guess it just — it just hit him hard. It would have done the same to anybody.”

“I’m so glad Frank had you there to help him deal with it,” Bea said. “Brian felt so bad later.”

“Frank’s dad wasn’t around that day?” Cassidy asked.

“Not until later. I don’t even remember now where he was, but Greg and Cookie called here, trying to find him. When Brian realized what had happened, he was very upset that he hadn’t been there.”

“Probably better that he wasn’t, really,” Greg said.

“What do you mean?” Bea asked.

“Frank was on his own, and he did fine. In fact, he really proved himself that day. He moved up to detectives not long after that. For the first time, I think a lot of people saw him as somebody who was more than Brian Harriman’s son.”

Seeing Bea bristle, I said, “Frank is so proud of his dad, I don’t think he would have minded anyone thinking of him as Brian’s son.”

Bea looked at me gratefully. She stood up. “I’d better check on dinner. It’s nothing too fancy, Detective Cassidy.”

“Ma’am, my mouth has been watering since I walked in here this evening. Heaven can’t smell any better than whatever you’re cooking in there.”

“Just chicken,” she said.

“Don’t let her fool you with that ‘just chicken’ stuff,” Greg said. “Bea’s a fantastic cook.”

The momentary tension between them was gone. “I’ll help you,” I said to Bea, and followed her into the kitchen. Cassidy offered his help as well and was politely refused. He began talking to Greg about his years on the local force.

I was thinking ahead by then, about what I needed to do before that “one injection.” In order to help Frank escape, I might have to plan one of my own.

“Bea,” I asked after setting the table — the only interference she would brook — “mind if I use your phone?”

“No, go right ahead.”

I thumbed through the telephone book and found a listing for Regina Szal, speech therapist. I called and got voice mail. How appropriate, I thought.

The outgoing message presented several options, including “If you would like to mark this message for urgent delivery, please press the pound sign before you hang up.” I left my name and Bea’s number and added, “This is an emergency. Please call me as soon as possible.” I pressed the pound sign, got an automated, “Thank you,” and a click.

Figuring Bakersfield couldn’t be overrun with unrelated Szals, I called the other listing for that last name, a Bernard Szal. When a woman answered I asked for Regina.

“This is Regina,” she answered in a voice so sultry, I figured I’d pay a tidy sum if she could teach me to talk like that.

“My name is Irene Kelly. I need to talk to you about two of your former clients — Bret Neukirk and Samuel Ryan.”

I was expecting her to immediately respond with a speech about confidentiality. Instead she said, “Yes, I know. I’ve been expecting to hear from you.”

“You have?”

“Yes. Bret and Samuel wrote to me a couple of weeks ago. They said you would have questions about them. They also said you would be in a hurry.”

“That hardly describes it. I need to see you as soon as possible.”

“Hmm. All right. When?”

“How late will you be up this evening?” I asked.

“Oh, until about three in the morning.”

“Three?”

“Bernard’s an amateur astronomer. We’re both night owls. Fortunately, I’m able to schedule my clients late in the day. In any case, you’re welcome to come by this evening. I’ll give you my address, and if we don’t answer the bell, just come through the gate and into the backyard. You’ll see the tower. That’s where we’ll be.”

“Thanks.” I wrote the address and directions. “You’re outside the city.”

“Away from the lights,” she said.

“You’ll forgive me, but I wasn’t expecting this to be so easy.”

“Bret and Sam were favorites of mine. And they very wisely enclosed signed releases. But do you mind telling me what this is all about?”

“Perhaps that would be best explained in person.”

“What time should I expect you?”

I thought this over. “Do you watch the eleven o’clock news?”

“Sometimes.”

“Watch it tonight. I’ll be over sometime after midnight.”

“How very mysterious. But all right, we’ll see you after midnight.”

I checked the phone book for a listing for Eva Ryan or Francine Neukirk. There were no Neukirks at all and, although there were plenty of Ryans, nothing for Eva. On a whim, I looked for John Oakhurst. Zero.

I wasn’t surprised to discover that Cecilia Parker’s number was unlisted. I turned to Bea. “Could I get Cecilia’s phone number from you?”

“Just autodial number seven from the kitchen phone,” she said.

Autodial? I thought. I tried not to let myself get too steamed over that.

Cassidy came into the kitchen then, so I didn’t make the call.

“How you doing?” he asked.

“Fine,” I said.

He smiled. He knew I was up to something. I knew he knew. I was hoping he was going to be sleepy before midnight.

20

AFTER DINNER, while Cassidy was busy preparing a report to send to Hank Freeman, I again asked Bea for Cecilia’s number. “I need to make the call from a pay phone,” I explained, not wanting Cassidy to be able to overhear — or tape — the call. Belatedly I realized he could have taped the conversation with Regina Szal, although I didn’t think he had.

When Bea raised her eyebrows I said, “Cassidy will need to use the phone line for his fax. And I don’t want to tie up the line here.”

There was no loss of skepticism in her expression, but she wrote down Cecilia’s number, then went to her purse. She came back with the car keys and handed them to me. “Be careful,” she said.

Surprised, I hesitated.

“A down payment on an apology,” she said. “But that’s something we can talk about later.”

“I’ll be right back,” I said.

Although the patrolman from the Bakersfield PD was waiting outside, I didn’t see the reporter. I got into Bea’s Plymouth sedan, adjusted the seat and mirrors, and started the car. As I turned the corner I saw Cassidy coming out onto the front porch.

I drove to the second-nearest pay phone, hoping Cassidy would look for me at the nearest. The one I chose was at the dark end of a gas station parking lot. I dialed Cecilia Parker’s number.

Once I had identified myself she said, “Have they found him?”

“No. But we know who has him. I’ll get to that. Look, I may only have a few minutes here, so I’m going to make this quick. Are you working tomorrow?”

“No,” she said. “I have the day off. Why?”

“I’d like to meet you for breakfast.”

She hesitated. “Look, I’m not sure this is such a great idea….”

“This isn’t about your relationship with Frank,” I said. “But for his sake, I need to talk to you.”

“I don’t see what good it’s going to do him to have the two of us talk,” she said.

“What are you afraid of, Cecilia?”

“Not you, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“Then meet me at the Hill House Cafe at seven o’clock.”

“Seven o’clock? On my day off?”

“Under the circumstances, I don’t have a lot of free time. Besides, we may need to do some traveling together.”

“Now, wait a minute — I don’t get it. Frank is missing and you want to waste time meeting with me?”

“Because I think you might be able to help me save his life. If that wasn’t true, I wouldn’t have gone sneaking out of Bea Harriman’s house to make this call.”

She was silent.

“Please,” I begged.

“Okay, sure,” she relented. “No harm in it, I suppose. Now tell me about Frank.”

I looked up and saw the cruiser that had been in front of Bea’s house pulling into the gas station.

“Oh, hell. Look, I’ve got to go. Watch the news tonight — Las Piernas is holding a press conference about Frank. Or turn on an all-news radio station in about twenty minutes. It will explain who has him, and you’ll probably be able to figure out why I want to meet with you.”

“What’s going on?”

“Cassidy sent the locals looking for me. I’ll see you tomorrow morning.”

I hung up just as the patrolman spotted me. He pulled up, rolled down his window, and said, “Ready to go home now?”

“If I’m not, what happens?”

“I follow you all over town.”

I got into Bea’s car and drove back.

Cassidy was sitting on the swing, arms folded, long legs outstretched. When I pulled into the driveway, he stood up and went into the house. By the time I got inside he was asking Bea to turn on the radio. He didn’t look at me. When he took a seat in the living room, he stared at the radio as if it were a television. Bea and Greg kept exchanging anxious glances.

“Can I get you anything, Detective Cassidy?” Bea asked.

“No, thank you, ma’am,” he said, his eyes never leaving the radio.

“Cassidy—” I began.

“Oh, please don’t bother, Irene. You come up with some cock’n bull story about how you ran out of here because you had a sudden hankerin’ for a NeHi strawberry soda, you’ll just end up insulting my intelligence.”

Before I could reply, the news announcer on the radio said, “Our top story this half hour: A Las Piernas homicide detective has been taken hostage, apparently by Hocus, the anarchist group that is blamed for recent terrorist acts in that city. We now go live to a press conference in Las Piernas, where police are expected to give further details….”

A statement was read by a public information officer. He was joined at the podium by Frank’s boss, Lieutenant Carlson. Carlson did not speak. The statement was just as Cassidy had predicted it would be: Frank Harriman had been missing since the previous afternoon, was now believed to be the hostage of the group calling itself Hocus; Neukirk and Ryan were wanted for questioning; anyone with any information on their whereabouts or the disappearance of Detective Harriman should call the LPPD.

Once the statement was read, a barrage of questions were shouted from the reporters. All but one of the questions were answered with, “We have no further comment at this time.” The one exception was, “Do you believe Frank Harriman is still alive?”

The answer was, “We remain optimistic.”

The conference was ended. The on-scene reporter, obviously reading from a release, described Samuel Ryan as being twenty-two years old, five eleven, muscular build, with reddish brown hair and brown eyes. Bret Neukirk was twenty-one, six feet tall, slender, dark brown hair and eyes. He described Frank in this same, spare way. It seemed unlikely that anyone would recognize any of them from these descriptions.

The anchorman recapped the information in a sentence, then cut to a commercial for a roofing company.

The phone started ringing. Each time, I thought it might be Hocus, but the callers were friends of Bea Harriman. By the sixth call, her own nerves worn thin, she turned over the task of answering the phone to Cassidy, who again and again said politely that Mrs. Harriman appreciated the concern but needed to keep the phone line free.

Pete and Rachel arrived with an overnight bag — and a package for Cassidy. I was surprised to see Pete — but realized quickly why Rachel hadn’t left him behind. He hadn’t shaved, his eyes were bloodshot, his shoulders were drooping, his gait was tired and slow. He had the look of a man who had been holding long, unpleasant conversations with himself.

“Pete Baird,” Cassidy said from behind me. “Dang, I’m glad to see you. I really could use your help.”

“Sure, Cassidy,” Pete said, straightening. “Anything you need.”

Cassidy clapped a hand on Pete’s shoulder and walked him back to his makeshift office.

Rachel stared after them. “Amazing.”

“What?”

“It took Tom Cassidy less than two seconds to figure out exactly what Pete needed.”

“What was that?”

“Something to do.”

I suddenly realized that if Hocus hadn’t decided I could find their enemy, I would have been in the same position Pete had been in over the last several hours. Waiting. Only waiting.

Bea began to lobby Rachel to stay overnight. “I’ve got three extra bedrooms here,” she said. “Two are spoken for, so you might as well grab the last one.”

Before long, Bea was feeding them at the kitchen table, convincing Cassidy and Greg to join them for dessert. I eased out of the gathering and went back to the bedroom Bea had set aside for me. The room held good memories for me; Frank had proposed to me there. I set the alarm for ten-thirty P.M. and went to sleep.

I awoke just before the alarm went off, no recollection of a dream, but my face damp with tears.

“Don’t start this shit,” I said to myself, blew my nose, and tried to pull myself together.

There was a soft knock at the door, and when I opened it Cassidy stood leaning against the jamb. He studied my face just a little too long to carry off his pretense of not noticing the tears. “Got a minute?” he said. “I’d like to talk to you.”

I nodded.

“Let’s go out back,” he suggested.

We walked through a side door to the backyard, avoiding the crowd in Bea’s house. Cassidy told me that my sister-in-law had returned; Mike had stayed home with the kids.

I heard motors running and saw that the front yard was bathed in light.

“Local TV news,” Cassidy said. “Hoping to get a reaction from the family. I think they’re going to have to be satisfied with a shot of the outside of the house. Ol’ Bea is pretty tough.”

“Yes, she’s had to be.”

He waited, and when I didn’t say more, he kept walking. We sat down on a couple of chairs on the back porch.

He stretched out his legs and sighed. “So how are we gonna work this out, Irene Kelly?”

“Work what out?”

“You seem to be feeling a little fenced in,” he said.

“More than a little. But I understand. You’ve got your job to do, I’ve got mine.”

“As a reporter?”

“No. As Frank’s wife.”

He tapped the tips of his fingers together, then said, “The conversation with Mrs. Szal was recorded, you know.”

“Don’t you think she should have been made aware of that?”

“Probably,” he agreed. “Why don’t you tell her that you knew we were legally recording calls on this line, but you failed to tell her?”

The truth was, I had thought only in terms of incoming calls, although I should have known better.

“Well, now you know why I had a ‘hankerin’ for a NeHi,” I said.

He smiled. “You wake up cranky, don’t you?”

“You haven’t even seen the free preview for cranky yet,” I said.

“A chill just went down my spine,” he drawled lazily. “Look, how about letting Pete go out there with you? He doesn’t have to go inside the house. Just let him go along. That way, I don’t get shot at dawn for letting you wander all over Bakersfield on your own.”

“I’m supposed to be in mortal danger from someone who teaches people how to stop stuttering?” I asked.

“Someone who has been in communication with Ryan and Neukirk. Who speaks of them as her ‘favorites.’ ”

I sighed. “What’s the alternative? A patrol car tailing me?”

“Yep.”

“You’re a devious son of a bitch, Cassidy. You know I won’t refuse Pete a chance to feel useful. And you know I won’t try to give him the slip, because you know I won’t want him to… well, right now, he doesn’t need to feel like he’s failed at anything.”

The smile built up to a full-fledged shit-eating grin.

An hour later Rachel, who had come along for the ride, was laughing and congratulating Pete, who was gleefully ditching the last of the handful of reporters who had tried to follow us away from Bea’s house.

I was wondering what it would take for me to do the same to Cassidy.