Prodigal Blues (23 page)

I sat there for a moment trying to figure out how to say good-bye to this broken little boy I hardly knew, then Christopher signaled for me to get out with him.
 
"Let them say their good-byes in private."

As soon as we were outside, he drove his knee up into my balls, covering my mouth with his hand to muffle my shriek.
 
I dropped to my knees and he grabbed a handful of hair, yanking back my head and leaning in my face.

"That's for putting me on the spot earlier.
 
And"—he jerked my hand back farther—"to remind you that you and me are
not
friends, got it?
 
Just because you do all right under pressure doesn't mean I won't splatter you all over the pavement if you give me a reason.
 
You see this?
 
This isn't that the pop gun I used on the guy at the rest stop,
this
is a .45-caliber Heckler and Koch USP Tactical pistol.
 
Of all his guns, this one was Grendel's favorite.
 
It doesn't make much of a hole going in, but you could set a whole watermelon in the crater it makes on the way out—and from the distance I'll be shooting, that's what it'll do."
 
He jerked my head one more time; I could hardly breathe and could hear bones starting to crack.

"Are we clear on everything?"

"…yes…" I managed to get out.
 
He snapped my head forward, releasing his grip.
 
I fell to my hands, gasping for air and trying not to throw up.

"Remember how I told you to do it, Pretty Boy.
 
Now go on.
 
That's the tree, up there near the corner.
 
Do good, we'll be listening."

I wobbled away, almost falling twice, one hand clutching at my crotch like a drunk stumbling toward a urinal in the dark.
 
Christopher took a bottle of pills from his pants pocket, looked at it, then put it back.
 
I wondered what they were.

I somehow made it to the tree, where I immediately put my back against it and slid to the ground.
 
My nuts had dropped back down—they were now only in the middle of my chest instead of lodged in my nostrils—and I was determined to stay like this until the last possible minute…

…which came about four minutes later, when the red beam of the laser sight flashed against my right temple.
 
I dragged myself to my feet and leaned against the tree, watching as Rebecca came around the corner, pushing Thomas in his wheelchair.
 
She pushed him up the walk, set the brakes, placed the two grocery bags in his lap, then embraced him.
 
I felt a great swell of sadness, then realized my pity was badly misplaced; they both carried themselves with far too much dignity for that.
 
How could I do anything but admire them?

Rebecca walked away, still shaking like a leaf in the wind, not looking back, and as soon as she disappeared around the corner I counted to sixty and placed the call.

It was between the second and third rings that I realized Christopher had not told me what name to use.
 
I sure as hell couldn't use my own, and if I—

"…lo?" said a very tired and very groggy voice.

"Hello?" I said.

"Uh, yeah, I… the hell time is—?
 
Who is this?"

"Am I talking to Mr. James Henry Theilbar?"

"Who is this?"

"Mr.
Theilbar
, this is"—I paused for only one second, grabbing the first official-sounding name that came into my mind—"Chief Deputy Samuel Gerard of the U.S. Marshal's Office."
 
If James Theilbar was a Tommy Lee Jones fan, I was screwed.

After a moment he said, "If this is some kind of joke, I swear to Christ—"

"I assure you this isn't a joke, sir.
 
You are the same James Henry
Theilbar
who is employed as plant manager at Larsons Manufacturing, Inc., aren't you?"

"Yes…?"
 
I could hear the weariness in his voice; how many times had he received prank phone calls that started out this way, but had talked to the caller anyway in hopes that, maybe, this time, it would be the real thing?

"Mr. Theilbar I need for you to get yourself awake, sir.
 
I have some information about Thomas."

"I'll just bet you do.
 
All right, asshole, if you're who you say you are, prove it."

"When your son was abducted from the emergency room waiting area at County General, he was wearing a New York Yankees' baseball cap, a blue, button-down shirt, a pair of—"

"Public record, you son-of-a-bitch."

"Your wife had the car that day and you couldn't find your wallet so you paid for the cab ride with cash you took from her house money that she didn't think you knew about—"

"Also in my statement."

"You let Thomas call the cab and pay the driver."

"Fuck you.
 
I'm hanging up now."

And he did.

I stood there staring at the phone in my hand, then hit the redial button.

This time before he answered, he turned on the bedroom light.
 
Their bedroom was in the front part of the upstairs, just as we'd hoped.
 
"Listen, you bastard—"

"Was it also part of your statement that the cookie jar where your wife kept her house money was a gift from the guy she was dating at the time the two of you met?"

Silence, then:
 
"I… I don't remember having said that—but it doesn't mean I
didn't
say it."

"Was it part of your statement of record that your son was still having problems with bedwetting?
 
Was it part of your statement that his favorite trick to play on you was to cover your face with shaving cream while you were sleeping, and then wake you up by screaming, 'Daddy's having a conniption fit!'?—a phrase I believe he learned from your wife."

"…oh, my
God
…"

"Mr. Theilbar, do you now believe that I am who I say I am?"

"Where's Thomas?
 
Where's our son?"

"I need for you to stay calm, sir."
 
That was Christopher's biggest order:
 
Say whatever you have to, but keep them calm.
 
I don't want this turning into a circus that's going to wake all the neighbors.

"Calm, my ass!
 
Do you have information about Thomas or not?"

I could hear his wife's voice in the background—"Thomas?
 
Jim is that someone calling about Thomas?"

"Mr. Theilbar, please tell your wife that I need for the both of you to remain calm."

"Yes, yes, of course… I'm… I'm sorry, it's just… we've had
so many
crank calls about Thomas since he disappeared, or tabloid reporters trying to get a story, or people wanting reward money before they'll give us any information…"

"I understand.
 
Thomas is alive, Mr. Theilbar.
 
Tell your wife."

He did.
 
I expected her to start crying, but this was a woman made of strong stuff who didn't base her behavior on tired movie clichés; she said, in a firm, steady voice:
 
"Tell him we want to see our son."

"Mr. Theilbar, does your phone have a speaker?"

"Yes."

"Put me on it, please."

I heard the click and hiss.
 
"Can you both hear me now?"

"Yes," they replied.

"Mr. and Mrs. Theilbar, Thomas is alive.
 
Got that?"

"Good Lord, yes," said Mrs. Theilbar.
 
"What… what do we have to do now?
 
Please, tell us."

I stepped out from behind the tree and walked under the cone-shaped glow of the streetlight.
 
"Turn off your bedroom light and come to the window."

The light snapped off and I saw the shadow-movement of the curtain being pulled aside.
 
I held up the wallet, making sure that the light reflected off the badge.
 
"Can you see me?"

"Yes."

"Mr. and Mrs. Theilbar—Jim and Melinda, may I call you that?"

"Yes…?"

"Jim and Melinda, it's important you understand that we can't afford to draw any attention to this.
 
I need you to come down to your front porch, and promise me that you will remain calm and quiet, can you do that?"

"Of course."

"Come on down.
 
Don't turn on your porch light."

I closed the phone and slipped it into my pocket as I approached the house.
 
I stopped when I got beside Thomas, who took my hand and said, "Are they coming to get me now?"

"Yes.
 
They'll be here in a second.
 
I'm guessing they have to put on their robes and slippers."

"Mommy doesn't wear slippers."

"Oh."

He squeezed my hand.
 
I could feel his trembling.

The front door opened.
 
Jim and Melinda stepped out onto the porch.

"Remember, buddy," I said.
 
"Bill and Dale."

"Bill and Dale.
 
Gotcha."

They came down off the porch.
 
Melinda Theilbar—a small, blonde-haired woman with soft, attractive, round features that my mom would have called "pixie-ish"—was on the second step when she paused, leaned forward, and then gasped.
 
Her face lit up with a smile so bright it was almost enough to restore your faith in the human race.
 
She ran past her husband, arms outstretched, and slid down onto her knees in front of the wheelchair.
 
Now she was crying.
 
I couldn't blame her.

"Oh, God, Thomas!
 
Oh, my baby!
 
Oh, honey, I'm so glad to see you!
 
So glad, so glad, so glad…."

Ten feet away.
 
She'd been ten feet away, the light was at our backs, she couldn't be fully awake yet… ten feet away at three in the morning and she recognized him instantly.

She's his mother, she'll know who he is.

Jim Theilbar walked toward us very slowly, one hand over his mouth, his eyes glistening with tears.
 
He recognized his son, as well.
 
He looked at me, then knelt beside his wife and embraced Thomas, too.

I took a few steps back and looked down at my feet.
 
I had to wait.
 
This wasn't over yet.

After a couple of minutes, Mrs. Theilbar rose to her feet and crossed to me.
 
I held up the badge once again but she only gave it a quick glance.
 
"I don't know how to thank you."

"We need to talk, Melinda."
 
I took her by the elbow and led her up toward the front porch.
 
On the walk, Thomas and Jim were whispering and hugging.
 
Jim laughed.
 
So did Thomas.

"He seems like he's… well, like his mind's okay," said Melinda.

"It is.
 
He's been through nine different kinds of hell, but that's one tough boy you raised."

"What… what happened to him?"

"The man who abducted Thomas has been responsible for at least forty other abductions over the last fifteen years.
 
Most of them, he killed.
 
We were able to get Thomas and the other survivors out of there before he had the chance to—how much of this do you want to hear?"

Melinda wiped her eyes and pulled in a deep, unsteady breath.
 
"As much as you want to tell me."

I gave her the
Cliff's Notes
version.
 
The man who took Thomas was a psychopath who got off on domination and physical torture; yes, Thomas had been sexually molested, as had all of the other victims; no, I couldn't give her any specifics about the rescue at this time; yes, I was of the opinion that Thomas was going to need emotional counseling for probably the rest of his life; yes, the amputations were clean, so there was every chance that artificial legs would very much be in order.

"The two grocery bags Thomas has," I said, "are filled with medications that he will need; painkillers, antibiotics, etc.
 
There's a list of what medicines need to be given, and when, as well as several jars of salve for his burns."

By this time Jim had pushed Thomas up beside us, and stood listening.
 
"We need to take him to the hospital right now," he said.

"No," snapped Thomas.
 
"You gotta keep this a secret for a little while."

Melinda looked at him, then at me.
 
"Why do we have to do that?"

"The man who abducted Thomas and the other children doesn't know yet that we have them; he thinks they're still chained up in his basement."
 
At hearing that, Melinda's eyes widened in disgust and sorrow, but she got a handle on it right away; no showing weakness in front of her husband and son for this gal, no, sir.
 
Damn, I liked her.