Prodigal Blues

"That's why you made three passes, to make sure I fit your little profile?"

"That's about the size of it."

His matter-of-fact tone irritated me, and I suddenly didn't feel like talking anymore, so I asked, "What's your story, Christopher?  How'd Grendel manage to get his hands on you?"

"Another burning question," said Arnold, turning to face him.  "All this time, you never told us—hell you've never talked about your family.  I don't think you even told us what their first names are.  What gives?"

If there had been even a hint of friendliness in Christopher's eyes and ma

"Don't start," said Rebecca.  "It's almost time to… to wake Thomas."

Arnold checked the map on the computer, then the road signs.  "She's right.  It's the exit after this one."

"Hell's bells, people," Christopher said.

Then Rebecca added, "All in favor."

Everyone raised their hands.

"You listen to me, Pretty Boy, and you listen good."

"Do I have a choice?"

As we approached the exit he explained to me exactly, specifically, in detail, precisely what I was to say and do.

"Fuck up and I'll kill you."

"I hate it when you get like this," said Rebecca.

"Amen to that," muttered Arnold.

And that's how I came to find myself standing behind a tree in a quiet middle-class neighborhood at three o'clock in the morning, counting sixty as Rebecca, still trembling, walked away, then punching in the phone number of a husband and wife whose world was about to change drastically for the second time in as many years.

11. Maybe the Bad Stuff Makes Him Sad

Before we all got out of the bus to assume our positions, I'd reminded Thomas to make sure that he sang the "Bill and Dale" line when he saw his mother; if nothing else, that would let her know that he was really her little boy.

"He won't need to do that," said Rebecca.  "His mother will know who he is."

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 co