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Chapter 5

Hampstead Heath,” Win said when Myron was back in the car. “Historic.”

“How so?”

“Keats walked its lanes. Kingsley Amis, John Constable, Alfred Tennyson, Ian Fleming-they all had residences there. But that’s not why it’s best known.”

“Oh?”

“Do you remember when George Michael was arrested for having sex in a public bathroom?”

“Sure. It was here?”

“Hampstead Heath, indeed. This has been a gay cruising spot forever, but from my understanding, there is very little prostitution. It has always been more about cottaging.”

“Cottaging?”

“God, you’re naïve. Cottaging. Anonymous sex between men in bushes, public toilets, like that. Cash rarely changes hands. Still, young hustlers could try to ply their trade here, perhaps locate a potential sugar daddy or network for clients. I would suggest heading into the park and veering left toward the public toilets. Continue down the lane past the ponds. That seems to be the apropos area.”

“You’re pretty knowledgeable on the subject.”

“I’m knowledgeable on all subjects.”

That was true.

“I also use this new thing called Google.” Win held up his smartphone. “You should try it sometime. Do you need to take these?”

Win handed Myron the age-progression photographs of both Patrick and Rhys. He also described with startling detail what the maybe-Patrick he’d seen yesterday looked like, and what he was wearing.

Myron stared at the faces. “How old would Patrick and Rhys be now?”

“Both would be sixteen. Coincidentally-or maybe not-sixteen is the age of consent in Great Britain.”

Myron snapped photos of the photos before handing them back to Win. He reached for the door handle and stopped.

“We’re missing something here, Win.”

“Probably.”

“You feel it too?”

“I do.”

“Are we being set up?”

“Could be,” Win said, steepling his fingers again. “But the only way to find out for certain is to proceed.”

The car was idling at the corner of Merton and Millfield Lane.

“All set?”

“Onward,” Myron said and slipped out of the car.

Hampstead Heath was lush and green and beautiful. Myron took the stroll, but there was no sign of Patrick or Rhys. There were men, lots of them, from eighteen (or younger, he supposed) to eighty, mostly in unremarkable garb, but what had Myron expected? Myron saw nothing sexual going on, but that was because, he assumed, there was a public toilet and bushes deep off the paths.

Fifteen minutes into the walk, Myron put the phone to his ear.

“Nothing,” he said.

“Anyone hit on you?”

“No.”

“Ouch.”

“I know,” Myron said. “Do you think these pants make me look fat?”

“We still joke,” Win said.

“What?”

“We believe in complete equality and get angry at anyone who displays the slightest bit of prejudice,” Win said.

“Yet we still joke,” Myron finished for him.

“Indeed.”

That was when Myron spotted something that gave him pause.

“Hold up a second,” Myron said.

“I’m listening.”

“When you described the, uh, scene yesterday, you mentioned two other guys working the street.”

“Correct.”

“You said one had a shaved head and wore a dog collar.”

“Correct again.”

Myron moved the phone so that the camera was pointing at the young leather-clad man near the pond.

“Well?”

“That is he,” Win said.

Myron put the phone back in his pocket and crossed the path. Dog Collar had his hands jammed into his pants pockets as though he was searching for something that had pissed him off. His shoulders were hunched. He had a tattoo on his neck-Myron couldn’t tell what it was-and he was pulling on his cigarette as though he meant to finish it with one inhale.

“Hey,” Myron said, wanting to get his attention, but also afraid that anything too loud might startle the… boy? Man? Guy? Kid?

Dog Collar spun toward Myron, trying his best to look tough. There is a certain cringe behind false bravado. Myron saw that here. It usually derives from a person who, one, has been beaten too many times, hence the cringe, and, two, has discovered the hard way that showing weakness makes the beatings even worse, hence the false bravado. The damage-and there was a lot of it here-came off the boy in waves.

“Gotta light?” he asked.

Myron was going to answer that he didn’t smoke or carry a lighter, but maybe asking for a light was some sort of code, so he stepped closer.

“Can we talk for a second?” Myron asked.

Dog Collar’s eyes darted like a bird moving from branch to branch. “I know a place.”

Myron didn’t reply. He wondered about the boy’s life, about where it had started, about the path it had traveled, about when it started to go wrong. Was this a slow descent, a childhood steeped in abuse maybe, something like that? Was this boy a runaway? Did he have a mother or father? Was he beaten or bored or on drugs? Had the downward spiral been gradual, or had hitting bottom been more sudden-a snap, a scream, one hard, clean blow?

“Well?” the kid said.

Myron took in this skinny kid with his pale, reed-thin arms, a nose that had been busted more than once, the piercings in his ears, the guyliner, that damn dog collar, and he thought about Patrick and Rhys, two boys who had grown up in the lap of luxury and been snatched away.

Did they now look like this boy?

“Yeah,” Myron said, trying not to sound too deflated, “I’m ready.”

“Follow me.”

Dog Collar headed up the ridge toward the path between the two ponds. Myron wasn’t sure if he should keep up and walk side by side with the boy-Myron was guessing his age to be between eighteen and twenty, and that was young enough to still be called a boy-or if he should stay behind him. Dog Collar kept hurrying ahead, so Myron settled for walking behind him.

There had been no request for money yet. That troubled Myron a bit. He kept an eye on his surroundings. They were heading farther up, toward the thicker bushes. There were fewer men around now. Myron turned his attention to Dog Collar. When they walked past a guy wearing camouflage pants, Myron saw a small, almost indiscernible nod pass between the two men.

Uh-oh.

Myron wanted to give Win a little bit of a warning.

“Who’s that?” Myron asked.

“Huh?”

“That guy you just nodded at. The guy with the camouflage pants.”

“Don’t know what you’re talking about.” Then he added, “You’re an American.”

“Yes.”

The kid circled behind a bush. They were completely out of sight now. Myron spotted a used condom on the ground.

“So what are you into?” the kid asked.

“Conversation.”

“What?”

Myron was a big guy, six four, a former collegiate basketball star. He had weighed 215 in his playing days. He was up ten pounds since then. He positioned his body so that Dog Collar couldn’t just run off. Myron didn’t know if he would use force to stop him, but he didn’t want to make it easy either.

“You were there yesterday,” Myron said.

“Huh?”

“When that… that incident took place. You saw it.”

“What are you… Wait, are you a copper?”

“No.”

“So why would an American…?” His voice faded away and his eyes widened. “Oh, look, I ain’t seen nothing.”

Myron wondered whether Win had spoken and if Dog Collar was putting it together like this: An American kills three people-and another American finds the witness.

“I don’t care about that,” Myron said. “I’m looking for the boy who was there. He ran off.”

Dog Collar looked skeptical.

“Look, I’m not here to harm you or anyone else.”

He tried to show Dog Collar his most trustworthy face, but unlike the throwback street hooker, this kid had probably never seen one. People were either abusers or marks in his world.

“Pull down your trousers,” Dog Collar said.

“What?”

“That’s what we’re here for, right?”

“No, listen, I’ll pay you. I’ll pay you a lot.”

That made him pause. “For?”

“Do you know the boy who ran off?”

“And if I do?”

“I’ll pay you five hundred pounds if you bring me to him.”

The eyes started darting again. “Five hundred?”

“Yes.”

“You have that much on you?”

Uh-oh. But in for a penny, in for a…

“Yeah, I do.”

“So you probably have more.”

As though on cue, two guys came around the bush. One was the man in camouflage pants Myron had noticed earlier. The other guy was a big brawler type with a tourniquet-tight black T-shirt, a Cro-Magnon forehead, and arms as big as ham hocks.

The brawler was chewing tobacco like a cow with a cud and playing to type; he was actually cracking his knuckles.

“You’re going to give us all your money,” Camouflage Pants said, “or Dex here is gonna give you a pounding-and then we’ll just take it.”

Myron looked at Dex. “Are you really cracking your knuckles?”

“What?”

“I mean, I get it. You’re a tough guy. But cracking your knuckles? It’s over the top.”

That confused Dex. He frowned. Myron knew the type. Bar fighter. Takes on smaller guys. Never did battle with anyone who had any kind of skill.

Dex moved into Myron’s space. “You some kind of smart-ass?”

“How many kinds are there?”

“Oh man, oh man, oh man.” Dex actually rubbed his hands together. “I’m going to so enjoy this.”

“Don’t kill him, Dex.”

Dex smiled with tiny pointy teeth like an ocean predator circling a guppy. There was no reason to wait. Myron made his fingers into a spear, cupped his hand slightly, and, leading with the fingers, he struck Dex straight in the throat. The blow landed like a dart.

Dex’s hands both went to his neck, leaving him completely exposed. Myron wasn’t in the mood to do any serious damage here. He quickly swept the guy’s leg, knocking him to the ground. He turned his attention to Camouflage Pants, but he was having none of it. Maybe it was watching his muscle get taken down so easily. Maybe it was the knowledge of what had happened to his haute couture brethren yesterday at the hands of Win. He ran.

So did Dog Collar.

Damn.

Myron was fast, but as he turned, he felt the old injury tighten his knee joint. Between the plane and the car, he’d probably spent too much time sitting. Should have stretched it more during his walk.

Meanwhile the kid moved like a jackrabbit. He had, Myron surmised, been forced to run a lot, and while Myron might normally sympathize, there was no way he was going to let this lead slip away.

He couldn’t let Dog Collar get too far ahead of him.

If he got too far ahead-if he found people and civilization-Dog Collar would be safe from whatever Myron wanted to, well, do to him. He might also call out for help. These areas had a way of policing their own.

But then again, would a thief trying to roll a guy in a park like this want to draw attention to himself?

It might not matter. Myron was on the path now too, but the kid already had a substantial lead, and that lead seemed to be widening. If Myron lost him, it would be yet another missed opportunity. The ties to what Win had seen yesterday-the ties to Patrick and Rhys-were tenuous at best. If this kid got away, it could be game over.

Dog Collar veered around the street lamp and out of sight. Damn. No chance, Myron thought. No chance of catching up.

And then Dog Collar went flying.

His legs were up in the air, his body horizontal to the ground. Someone had done the simplest thing in the world.

Someone had stuck out his foot and tripped him.

Win.

Dog Collar was splayed on his belly. Myron made the turn. Win barely glanced his way before disappearing into the shadows. Myron hurried over and straddled Dog Collar. He spun him onto his back. Dog Collar covered his face and waited for the blows.

The kid’s voice was pitiful. “Please…”

“I’m not going to hurt you,” Myron said. “Just calm down. It’s going to be all right.”

It took another few seconds before he lowered his hands away from his face. There were tears in his eyes now.

“I promise,” Myron said, “I’m not going to hurt you. Okay?”

The boy nodded through the tears, but you could see he didn’t believe a word of it. Myron risked rolling off him. He helped him sit up.

“Let’s try this again,” Myron said. “Do you know the boy who ran away yesterday, the one they were fighting over?”

“The other American,” Dog Collar said. “He your friend?”

“Does it matter?”

“He killed all three of them, like he was taking a stroll. Just sliced them up without a care.”

Myron tried another avenue. “Did you know those guys?”

“Course. Terence, Matt, and Peter. Used to beat the shit out of me, all three of them. If I had a pound in my pocket, they wanted me to give them two.” He looked up at Myron. “If you had something to do with it, well, I’d shake your hand.”

“I didn’t,” Myron said.

“You just want the boy they was hassling.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“It’s a long story. He’s in need of rescue.”

Dog Collar frowned.

“Do you know him, yes or no?”

“Yeah,” Dog Collar said. “Course I know him.”

“Can you take me to him?”

Some wariness came back to the kid’s eyes. “You still got the five hundred pounds?”

“I do.”

“Give it to me now.”

“How do I know you won’t run again?”

“Because I saw what your friend did. You’ll kill me if I run.”

Myron wanted to tell him that wasn’t so, but it probably wouldn’t hurt to keep him scared. Dog Collar stuck out his palm. Myron gave him the five hundred pounds. The kid jammed the money into his shoe.

“You won’t tell anyone you gave it to me?”

“No.”

“Come on, then. I’ll take you to him.”