Dan Sharp Mysteries 4-Book Bundle (58 page)

Little Boy Blue

Dan pulled up in his car and sat watching the retirement home. The same boarded-up doors and miraculously intact windows. It was just past eight in the morning,
a little on the cool side. Nothing stirred. At eight thirty, he got out and stretched. A quick check showed the stone was still in place at the front door. In back, everything looked intact. He tried the door. Locked. A gash of red graffiti rolled around one corner of the building, a delicate curl leading to who knew where. A surrealist surfer riding a wave to nowhere. Dan couldn't remember seeing it before. He got back in the car and settled in for the wait. He'd brought a
New York Times
and a
Wendy's combo — super-size everything. While he didn't relish cold fries, he knew he'd want to nibble something — anything — to keep his mind off the time.

This part of the job hearkened back to his beginnings as an insurance fraud investigator, when he would disguise himself and sit invisibly back as claimants for accident insurance went about their lives, waiting to see if their actions contradicted the statements about their injuries. It was a job he'd quickly come to despise. He left as soon as he realized he was implicating innocent people just trying to get along as best they could. No sin in living, he told himself the day he quit. Let others figure out who was doing the dirty.

He finished the combo and picked up the paper. It didn't hold his attention. He never brought books. He became too engrossed in them and forgot to keep his eye on things. The radio was annoying —
light
jazz,
light
classical,
heavy
rock — where was the mainstream these days? He switched over to 1010 Talk Radio and listened to the babble of people trying to express themselves, dying to be heard. So much to say, so few to listen. All the lonely people. The Beatles had it right all those years ago.

At one o'clock he told himself to leave. Nothing was happening. At two thirty he was sure he was wasting his time. Four o'clock came and went.
The unshakeable Dan Sharp
, Ed called him. Something to that doggedness then.

It was ten minutes to five when the figure scurried into sight at the far end of the property. Blue blazer, cap pulled well down. If Dan had had his head buried in a book he would have missed the slight movement. It was Little Boy Blue. Or rather it was Gaetan Bélanger as Little Boy Blue, so Dan believed.

The boy headed for the back, carrying a paper sack. Another fan of fast food. Dan waited a beat before he got out of the car. He walked casually up to the building then turned the corner and stealthily approached the front door, slipping inside the crepuscular interior.

He crept past the day room with its coliseum touch-up, skirting the drowned pool. He stopped and strained his ears. A faint murmuring came from upstairs. Gregorian chant, a monotonous line without harmony of any sort. Someone was talking softly, as though even here in this inner sanctum he was afraid of being overheard. From time to time the pitch shifted, an antiphonal response in the liturgy before reverting to the original tone. A second voice then. An answer song. Was someone with Little Boy Blue?

He crept softly up the stairs till he could see along the hallway. The door to the room where he had found the blazer and hair products was standing open, daylight shining a clear path on the floor. Dan made his way along, thankful the stripping crew had left the hall carpet intact. Nothing like footsteps to advertise your presence. He paused and waited for the sound to resume. There it was again. He was about to fathom the answer to at least one mystery.

He reached the door and stopped. The sound was less distinct now. He peered inside. The room was empty. He looked cautiously around. He could have sworn the voices had come from this room. They resumed suddenly from a baseboard register, the talk carrying from somewhere below.

He crept back down the stairs, scanning for a basement entrance. He found the stairwell near the joint in the L-shaped corridors and descended one cautious step at a time, mindful not to let his tread give him away. There he was, breaking Horror Film Survival Rule Number Three:
Never go down to the basement alone
.

Someone spoke, paused, spoke again. The response came in a different pitch. All talking suddenly ceased as Dan reached the landing. He braced for an assault. Nothing happened; no one emerged to challenge him.

A soft, childlike laugh came from a door at the far end. As Dan edged his way along he heard a stealthy sound, as though something was being dragged across the floor. The smell of fries hung in the air.

He inched forward and peered through a crack. In the semi-darkness, he could make out a bag set on the floor beside a blazer and cap. A slim young man in black T-shirt, tight jeans, and worn runners sat cross-legged on the floor. Gaetan Bélanger. There was no one else there. Where was Little Boy Blue?

This kid is nowhere
, Domingo had said.

Dan watched the boy pick through the bag. His mutterings resumed. He seemed to be talking to his food, speaking in French mostly, but now and then a word or two in English. He pulled out a hamburger, tore it open, and ate ravenously. With his lean build, he no doubt came by his hunger honestly.

Dan had confronted missing people in the flesh many times before. Sometimes he'd been able to talk them into going back to their lives or at least give him a credible explanation why they had disappeared, at least enough that would satisfy the people who hired him, before agreeing to leave them alone and not reveal their whereabouts, if they chose. But he'd never knowingly confronted a murderer before. He'd have to ad lib this one.

He stepped into the room and said, “You shouldn't be here. You're trespassing.”

The boy froze, his eyes frantically scanning the hallway behind Dan to see if he'd come alone. Even in the gloom, Dan could see his face was prematurely worn and weighed down with things no kid at that age should have to feel.

“I'm alone,” Dan said. “I'm not going to hurt you.”

The boy put the unfinished hamburger down on the wrapper and reached into his pocket. Dan could just make out the knife.

“I'm not armed,” Dan said, holding up his hands.

“Fuck off.”

“I just want to talk to you.”

“You came here before.”

Dan was shaken. The kid must have been hiding somewhere when he picked the lock and entered.

“You're with the police.”

He had only the slightest of accents. Pfeiffer had been right in saying that kids from Quebec were ahead of the bilingual game when it came to their English counterparts.

“I'm not with the police,” Dan said. “Are you afraid of them?”

“They're going to kill me!” he screamed. “You came here to kill me!”

“That's not true,” Dan told him. “I just want to talk.”

Dan watched the hand wielding the knife, saw how it waved erratically when he spoke.

“What do you want?”

“All right. I'll be honest with you. I know who you are.”

The boy made a whimpering noise.

“It's Gaetan. Am I right?”

The boy's body tensed.

“I know what happened to you at the church. I'm on your side.”

The knife slashed the air.

“Get the fuck out or I'm going to kill you.”

“I know this sounds crazy, but there are people who want to help you, Gaetan.”

He shook his head. “Why would they?”

“Because they believe what happened to you was wrong. They want to help you get your life back.”

“My life back? I died in that church!”

He lunged. Dan backed off. The knife tore at empty air.

“You didn't die. You survived. Whatever they did to you, you survived.”

The kid shook his head. “Bullshit!”

“You survived. And you're still here to talk about it.”

“What the fuck do you care?”

“You can tell people what happened to you so it won't happen to someone else.”

The boy sneered. “I don't believe that.”

“It's true.”

“Why should I care?”

His breathing was erratic. Dan saw there'd soon be no reasoning with him. He was approaching a state where people did inexplicable things. They lunged at armed police officers, challenged authority, doubted everything. And when they got shot or stabbed or jumped off the edge of a building twenty stories up, everyone said they had it coming. Dan wasn't going to have any of that here.

He recalled Trevor's question when he'd accepted the bodyguard job:
Will you carry a gun?
The outcome today would determine whether his choice had been a wise or a foolish one.

He tried for a casual tone. “Who were you talking to just now? Was there another boy here?”

Gaetan advanced with the knife held forward. “Fuck you. You don't know anything!”

Dan put his hands in the air. “I'm not going to hurt you,” he said.

The blade slashed and Dan jumped.

“Get out or I'll kill you.”

Dan's mind flashed quicksilver, his synapses working at the speed of light. What were the chances he could wrest the knife from the kid without hurting either of them?
Flash!
In his state, the boy was capable of doing a lot of damage.
Flash!
Better to leave it for the police.
Flash!
On the other hand, if he could stop Bélanger here and now, he might prevent other deaths.
Flash! Flash!
He thought of Trevor's admonition. He thought of Ked growing up without a father.
Why be a hero?
he wondered, even as he tried to think of a way to outsmart a desperate teenager with a knife.

Flash!

The boy lunged. He was quicker on his feet than Dan expected. Dan felt the jab as he stumbled back into the hallway. The door slammed shut.

Dan waited a beat then called out, “I just want to help you.”

No response. He placed his hand against the rib where he'd been cut. He thought of Darryl Hillary's bashed-in face and missing ear. He thought of tomorrow's sensational headline featuring his picture:
Missing Persons Investigator Becomes Fourth Mutilation Victim
. A scrabbling sound came from inside the room. Before it could register, Dan heard a crash followed by a trickling noise. Nothing further reached his ears. He opened the door and peered in. The air was dense and musty.

It's like he just disappears into thin air
, Domingo had said.

If nature abhorred a vacuum, how did a boy simply disappear?

Then he saw it. A cloud of dirt belched from a closet doorway. Debris covered the floor. Dan had his Mini Mag out as he reached in and began to dig. The dust filled his lungs and made him cough. He pulled his T-shirt over his nose till he could breathe freely again then turned back to the hole. The beam picked out a tunnel leading upward. Gaetan wasn't trapped. He'd triggered a collapse of bricks and drywall. Obviously, he'd been prepared for an ambush.

Dan looked around. The blazer and cap were gone. His disguise. He raced up the stairs and around to the back, searching for the end of the tunnel. He spotted it across the yard: a shed with a door flapping gently.

Dan glanced at the fence that led to the wrecking yard. Beyond it lay a maze of urban streets and back alleys. By the time he hoisted himself over, there'd be no telling which way Gaetan had gone. He suddenly felt exhausted. He crouched to catch his breath, spitting out dust and dirt.

Back in his car, he leaned his head on the steering wheel. The cut wasn't as bad as he'd expected. He pulled the first aid kit from his glove compartment, unwrapped a bandage, poured antiseptic on it, and applied it gently to the wound.

He'd been foolish to come alone. Still, nothing
terrible had happened. Or had it? He'd just alerted a murder suspect that someone knew where he'd been hiding out. You could strike that shelter off the list. Which left about five or six hundred other possibilities, unless he scrammed out of the city for good. For that, however, he'd need a car or a bus ticket. Buying a ticket meant risking public exposure. If so, the police would need to cover the bus and train stations. But would they be looking for Gaetan Bélanger or Little Boy Blue?

Dan parked his car down the street from Germ's bunker and walked over to the entrance. When Germ didn't respond to the buzzer, Dan got out and waved at the camera. No blinking lights, no crackling speakers. Odd. Then again, even underground activist geeks had to sleep and eat and use the bathroom sometime.

He took out his cell and dialled Germ's number. Germ picked up in seconds.

“I'm outside,” Dan said.

Germ mumbled something Dan didn't catch. The latch clicked and the door unlocked. Dan entered and pulled it closed behind him. The elevator rumbled down like a bumpy spaceship, banged to a landing and reopened onto a jumble of misplaced objects, smashed and broken. Glass and DVD shards covered the floor. Germ glowered from across the room like an angry charwoman, a push broom in his hand to complete the portrait.

“No way,” was all Dan said.

“Way,” Germ contradicted.

“Who?”

Germ shrugged and kicked at the load of debris by his feet.

“Guy in a mask.”

“No ID?”

“No, dude. You think he's gonna come in here and make a mess like this and identify himself so I can hang him out to dry afterward?”

Dan glanced over at the console. All its screens had been bashed in. Dan felt his stomach clutch.

“He smashed all the fucking monitors.”

Germ nodded.

“Why?”

“So I couldn't track something, is my guess. He made me show him the tapes. I think he recognized some of the sites.”

“Wait a second. You mean he wanted to see footage from your hidden cameras?”

Germ nodded. “He even knew which locations. He was furious when he saw Little Boy Blue on screen. Guess he figured we'd been holding out on him.”