Silent Son (4 page)

* * *

The man walked into the bathroom and flipped on the light. Its harsh glare hurt his eyes. He twisted the faucet and a thick
stream of water poured out. Then he washed his hands.

Over, and over, in the frothy flow he soaped his knuckles and fingers, scouring, kneading, rubbing until the skin was almost
raw. He was obliterating the marks, destroying the proof.

He glanced at his face in the mirror and smiled. He was back to normal, under control. Now.

Earlier, he’d almost lost it. He pictured Henry and Addie struggling, and the sudden, startled eyes of the little boy. But
he’d brought it off according to plan. The getaway was clean, out the back door, down the old trail into the ravine. It was
a piece of cake, and no one had a clue. Just as he’d planned.

The man cut off the water and pulled a towel off the rack.

The bathroom was quiet, the only sound now the afterdrip of the faucet.

But… His thoughts became troubled. Someone could talk. Give information to incriminate him… He flashed back to a stark gray
jail cell. He’d been there before. More than once. And he didn’t like it at all.

He left the bathroom and pulled out his wallet. In the lining was a business card with the name of a man who had saved his
ass on more than one occasion. A lean, mean, legal machine: the toughest lawyer on earth.

Gardner’s face was pressed against the glass of the intensive care unit. On the other side, Granville lay still and quiet
in a large metal bed, his head swathed in a bandage. The monitor was flashing numbers as his heart rate fluctuated, but there
was no respirator. He was breathing on his own.

Gardner was in agony. He’d visited countless scenes like this before. Occasions where he and the victim’s family kept vigil
while a broken body lingered in the breach. He’d comforted, and reassured, and counseled, but he was insulated against the
big hurt. His profession saw to that. There was a separation between emotion and intellect. And Gardner always held himself
on the side where logic, not feelings, ruled.

The doctors were coldly sympathetic. Medical versions of Gardner’s prosecutorial self. The lead physician was named Jenks,
and he was the first to speak with Gardner, outside the unit’s white enamel door.

“Mr. Lawson?”

Gardner nodded. He was struggling with his new role on the victim side of the aisle. Words were scarce.

“Your son is stable. He has a concussion, a hairline fracture to the temporal region of the skull, but he’s still unconscious…”

Gardner didn’t react. He knew the gobblydegook by heart. “Let me see him,” he said shakily.

“In a few moments. We’re still running some tests…” Dr. Jenks was blocking the door.

“Goddamn it, let me see my boy!” Gardner said, his voice threatening. Fuck protocol. He needed to be in there.

“Take it easy, Mr. Lawson,” the doctor said firmly. “When the tests are done, you can go in…”

Gardner took a step forward. “Get out of my way…”

Jenks could see that there would be violence if he didn’t give in.

“All right! but quietly…”

“Yeah,” Gardner said gruffly, pushing past the doctor into the room.

The mark on Granville’s forehead caught Gardner by surprise. He had been briefed by the state cops on the flight down. The
Bowers had both been shot execution-style. There was a contact pattern on the back of each skull, with extensive exit-wound
damage. But Granville had not been shot. They assured him over and over. He had just been banged in the head.

Gardner shoved past the attending medics to the top end of the bed. Granville looked peaceful, his pale skin smooth. But in
the center of his forehead there was a purple mark. Gardner fixated on it at once, its ugly circular pattern very familiar.
He’d seen it in a lot of homicide cases. The bruising had blurred the edges, but there was no question as to what it was:
the imprint of the barrel of a gun.

Gardner stroked Granville’s cheek, whispered “Dad’s here,” and replayed happier moments in his mind when they were together.

But the boy remained still. And Gardner stayed by his side, and held his hand, and talked softly, and promised that he’d find
the man who committed this vicious act against his son.

And then they asked him to wait outside the room. “He can revive anytime…” the doctors said. “Just stand by out there. You
can see fine…” So Gardner waited by the glass, looking at his boy, praying for his eyes to move. A tiny flick of his lashes
that would let his father know that the vigil was over.

“Gardner!” A female voice suddenly snapped Gardner’s attention away from the glass. He looked down the corridor to a figure
approaching at a run. It was Carole, his ex-wife. Granville’s mom.

Her dark curly hair was tousled, her eyes were red, and her makeup had smeared. “How is he?” she asked breathlessly. With
no access to a police chopper, she’d raced by car down from the county.

“He’s gonna be all right,” Gardner said, pointing into the intensive care unit.

Carole brushed by, and pressed her face against the window. “He… he looks… dead…” she sobbed.

Gardner put his arm around his ex-wife’s shoulder. “He’s asleep. That’s all. Doctors say he can wake up anytime now…” He kept
the arm in place, reassuring her with a firm squeeze.

“What happened to his forehead?” Carole quavered.

Gardner swallowed. “He was hit with a gun.”

“God,” Carole moaned. “Who…” She wanted to ask who did it, but the sentence wouldn’t come out.

“Don’t know yet,” Gardner said. “Police are investigating…”

“But they’ll get him,” Carole said.

“Yeah,” Gardner whispered. “They’ll get him. And then they’ll hand him over to me.”

It was 10:45
P.M
. and Brownie was still on the move. Farther up the Strip he’d found two more rowdies on his checklist, and
satisfied himself that they weren’t involved in the Bowers shooting. Each had a credible alibi. But Roscoe Miller had not
yet been located. He was an NFA man on the police blotter: No Fixed Address. A rolling stone who never stayed long in one
place. Finding him was usually a matter of luck.

Brownie backed the lab van out of the Triple Seven bar’s parking area and headed back toward town. As he passed Carlos’s place,
he did a double take. There, on the apron, was a familiar red truck. Brownie pulled in next to it, jumped out, and shone his
flashlight into the cab. It was empty.

Brownie entered Carlos’s front door and scanned the smoky room, focusing immediately on a muscular form deep in the murk,
a man bending over the pool table.

The cue came back for the shot, but Brownie seized the end and locked it still with his grip.

“What the fuck!” The man whirled around to see who had the guts to disrupt his game.

Brownie pulled the cue out of his hand with a jerk, and dropped the thick end to the floor. “Evenin’, Roscoe,” he said calmly.

Miller stood up straight and put his hands on his hips. He had dark unkempt hair, light blue eyes, and a trail of tattoos
running down each arm. He smiled at Brownie. “Well if it ain’t nigger Joe Friday…”

Brownie stayed cool. “Need to talk to you, Roscoe.”

The other patrons at the bar froze, and the jukebox was between tunes. The room was silent, expectant.

Miller leaned back against the rail of the pool table. “I’m busy right now. Come back tomorrow.” He smiled sarcastically and
looked into the crowd. Several punk wanna-bes laughed in the background.

Brownie stepped closer. “Afraid I’m gonna be unavailable tomorrow, Roscoe.” His voice was icy. “Got to go down to the morgue…”
Brownie moved up and pinned Miller against the table. “We have to talk now.”

Roscoe was in a spot. He was being challenged in front of his peers. He had to respond. But he had tangled with Officer Brown
before. The man was like a block of pig iron. Roscoe subtly reached behind himself for another cue, and a cohort deftly slid
it into his hand. Then, without warning, he swung it toward Brownie’s head.

Like lightning, Brownie blocked the blow with the cue in his hand and snatched the second cue from Roscoe’s fist. Then he
jammed it across Miller’s neck and slammed him down to the pool table.

“Ughhh…” Roscoe’s air was cut off.

“I’m not here to play games,” Brownie said calmly, applying pressure to the cue. “You’re gonna talk to me, or get locked up
for assault. You decide.”

Roscoe’s eyes started to bulge.

Brownie pushed himself away, and Miller sat up. The crowd hesitated, then drifted back into the smoke. Brownie patted the
flap of his sidearm. “No more trouble, okay?”

Miller rubbed his neck and nodded.

“Now, let’s go outside, where we won’t be disturbed,” Brownie said.

Miller stood and glanced around, but there were no seconds in sight. Then, grudgingly, he started to shuffle slowly across
the rough wood floor.

Outside the air was cool for late May. A half moon had just risen above the flat roof of the bar. Brownie directed Roscoe
to his truck as a prelude to a consent search. If Roscoe okayed a look at his personal effects, he couldn’t complain later
about an illegal search. That was the trick.

They reached the truck, and Brownie turned Roscoe around.

“Where were you about four
P.M
. today?”

Miller didn’t answer.

“I said, where were you this afternoon?”

Roscoe stood fast. “I don’t hav’ta answer that…”

“Take it easy, Roscoe.” Brownie decided to slow down.

“Just tell me where you were and we’ll call it quits.”

Roscoe looked up. “Why you want to know?” He was sweating.

“Two old folks got killed today…”

“And you think
I
did it?” Roscoe asked, his expression one of shock.

“Didn’t say that,” Brownie said quietly. “Just want to know where you were at the time.” As Brownie spoke, he peeked over
Roscoe’s shoulder into the truck.

Miller moved left to block his view. “You still sound like you’re accusin’ me…”

Brownie’s patience was almost gone. He could see Addie and Henry in his mind’s eye, flat out on the blood-soaked floor of
their grocery.

“One more time, Roscoe! Where the fuck were you today?”

Miller’s eyes turned ice cold. “Go to hell! I’m not telling you shit—”

Brownie suddenly lost it. With a move like a rattlesnake, he leaped on Roscoe and wrestled him to the ground. “You’re gonna
tell me, or I’m gonna break your fuckin’ neck!” Miller was pinned under him. “Tell me, motherfucker!” Brownie screamed.

Miller had stopped struggling but was eyeing Brownie with defiance. “You’re crazy, man…”

The words had no effect. Brownie pulled Roscoe to his feet, and shoved him away. “What are you hiding in the truck?” he said,
pulling his 9 millimeter from its holster.

“I don’t believe this!” Roscoe groaned. “Get the fuck away from there!”

Brownie moved to the door and tried it. The lock was down, the window up. “Open it!” he ordered.

“Where’s your warrant?” Roscoe knew Brownie was in dangerous legal territory.

“You gave me consent!” Brownie huffed.

“Like hell!” Roscoe yelled back.

“Okay, have it your way,” Brownie said calmly. With a flick of his wrist he smashed the driver’s side window with the butt
of his gun. Then he pointed the weapon at Roscoe’s face. “Lie down on the ground. Put your hands on the top of your head,
and don’t move until I tell you.”

“You’re really gonna be sorry,” Roscoe said. “You better not fuck with me—”

“Down!” Brownie ordered.

Miller kneeled, then went to the prone position as instructed.

Meanwhile, Brownie entered the truck and was busy rummaging through its interior, holding the gun on Roscoe as he worked.

The bar crowd had heard the commotion and was now poised in a semicircle around the truck.

“Call my lawyer,” Roscoe hollered. “Somebody call Kent King…”

Just then, Brownie emerged from the cab. “Yeah. Call Kent King…” The officer straightened up and unfolded his fingers. “Roscoe’s
gonna need him big time!” Brownie moved his palm into the light, exposing the items he’d found in the glove compartment. Three
brand-new 12 gauge shotgun shells.

Gardner stood alone outside the intensive care unit at 2:00
A.M
. Carole had become tired, and moved to a nearby seating area
to wait. The hall was quiet, disturbed only by the passing of an occasional nurse. Nothing had changed since the afternoon.
Granville was still stable, but asleep.

“He moved!” Gardner yelled suddenly. The small bandaged head had slowly rolled to one side. “Nurse!” Gardner called.

There were footsteps in the hall as robed figures flowed from all directions. Carole had also stood up in the commotion, and
come to the glass.

They were quickly allowed entrance by a doctor. Gardner on one side, Carole the other.

In a flash, Granville’s eyes came open. Blurry at first, then steady, they searched for a familiar face. A small hand came
out, and touched a larger one reaching to meet it. A weak smile materialized between the bandages as the small hand gripped
the larger.

And then, the first two words. “Hi, Dad…”

Gardner’s hand trembled as he felt the movement of his son’s fingers against his own. “Gran…” he mumbled. His voice croaked
as he bent down to kiss the boy’s barely exposed cheek. “Gran…” And they all began to cry.

Dawn was approaching from the southeast quadrant of the county. The Apple Valley side. Pink waves of clouds had been building
on the gray horizon for the past half hour, and soon they would crest, and molten sunlight would pour into the green trough
between the ridges. It was a peaceful time, when cows gathered by the barn and alarm clocks buzzed in the farmhouses. But
the peace wasn’t evenly spread. In a foggy meadow below Mountain Road, a stranger had returned.

He hadn’t planned to come back here. He was going to stay clear of the area at all costs. But it had been a had night. The
cops were restless, and the way they were going, it was not going to take them long to put it together.