Hocus (20 page)

“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.

T
HEIR 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.