Misdirection, page 25
part #2 of Borealis: Without a Compass Series
Francis gave another of those choking laughs and cut off only to drink from the bottle of scotch. “Somebody told you what was in it,” he asked, wiping his mouth with one arm. “Is that it?”
“Are you telling us there isn’t a trust?” Shaw asked.
“Oh, there’s a trust. If something happens to Philip before he comes of age, though, the money doesn’t come to me. It doesn’t even come to Celia, at least, not directly; it’s supposed to be divided up the way the rest of the estate was. Celia has a brother and a sister, so they’ll each get a cut. And my cunt wife wouldn’t let me anywhere near that money, in case you’re wondering.” He’d never looked more like the puffy-faced Jimmy Stewart than he did right then, grinning at them. “You can verify that with any lawyer who knows how to read a will, by the way. Next time, boys, check your facts.”
“Then what were you doing the night—” North began.
“I was kidnapping my son,” Francis said and took another belt of scotch. “Obviously.”
“Excuse me?”
“You’re looking for someone who would want him dead. I wanted the exact opposite; I needed him alive. The trust specifies that whoever is Flip’s legal guardian when he turns eighteen will remain in control of the trust until he’s twenty-five. I’m tired of the iron cunt. I’m tired of being shat on at work. If I divorce her, I get nothing—her daddy made sure of that when we got married. But if I divorce her and I’m Flip’s legal guardian, even if it’s only for another six months, then I have the trust for seven years. I wasn’t trying to rob my son; I just needed a cushion while I started a new life.” Another It’s a Wonderful Life grin. “Kidnapping him seemed like the obvious solution. I set up house, get Flip settled somewhere new, let him finish high school. The divorce would be ugly, but possession is nine-tenths of the law, and having Flip under my roof and showing that he was happy and safe would go a long way to ensuring I got custody.”
North shook his head and muttered, “This fucking family.”
“I know,” Francis said with another of those clipped laughs. “You really want a suspect? Then maybe you ought to think about this: there’s an election coming up, and this is a very conservative part of an already conservative state. What do you think is going to get my dearly beloved wife back in the senate? A faggot whore son who sucks cock on camera? Or the perfect son who is mysteriously abducted and tragically dies just before an election?” Something must have showed on Shaw’s face because Francis grinned and rolled his eyes. “God, you boys really aren’t any good at this. I felt bad when the iron cunt fired you, but maybe she was right.” He managed to work his phone free from a pocket, unlock it, and slide it across the breakfast bar.
Shaw caught it before it could fall.
Francis stood and walked around them to the oven, where he retrieved the casserole dishes. He peeled back the foil; the smell of cheese and onions rolled through the kitchen.
On the phone’s screen, a video waited to be played.
“Gotta love funeral potatoes,” Francis said as he scrambled the cheese-and-potato casserole with a fork.
The face was Flip’s; Shaw recognized him from the photographs and videos. The background was cement-block walls. Something thin and dark, barely more than a shadow, ran behind his head. When he spoke, his voice was husky, still slightly boyish but thick with emotion.
“My name is Philip Chittenden, and today is Saturday, May fourth.” A sad smile curved his lips. “May the fourth be with you. I thought things would get better if I left, but you can’t run away from your problems, and you definitely can’t run away from yourself. I’m sorry to everyone I hurt. Goodbye, Jos, Hiwet, Lauren, Louis. Bye, Abby. I’m sorry.”
Then the camera fell sideways, and Flip’s body jerked. The shadow behind his head became a rope. Then only his feet were in the frame, and he kicked for a long time before he went still.
Chapter 26
NORTH GOT THE PHONE out of Shaw’s hands, although Shaw’s fingers were stiff, his joints locked. Francis watched them over the pan of funeral potatoes, his glassy, drunken gaze expressionless. After forwarding the video to himself, North tossed the phone on the counter. Then he took hold of Shaw’s arm.
“Think about what I said.” Francis gave a smile that was so wild that North couldn’t decipher the strong emotion behind it: grief or madness or amusement. “Can I make you up a plate before you go?”
“He killed himself.”
“Somebody sure wants it to look that way.”
Shaw swallowed then, the noise dry and painfully audible, and his eyes closed.
“Come on,” North whispered. “Let’s get you out of here.”
Somehow, he walked Shaw out to the GTO. Somehow, he belted Shaw into the passenger seat. Somehow, because ninety percent of North’s brain was dealing with a combination of murderous fury and crippling fear. Fury for Francis, for making Shaw see that. Fear for Shaw, who never grew calluses, who never stopped getting hurt, who couldn’t stop feeling no matter how bad things got.
Crouched next to the car, North turned Shaw’s head by the chin. “Hey.”
Shaw licked his lips. “Hi.”
“I’m going to call Dr. Farr.”
Shaw shook his head. “I’m fine.”
Only he wasn’t fine. His jaw was slack. His shoulders loose. He had a thousand-yard stare. Their freshman year, before North and Shaw had transitioned to friends, North remembered Shaw crying for two days straight after someone told him the ending of Old Yeller. He remembered holding court in the dorm common room, expounding on the rich twinkie queen who was just being self-indulgent and trying to get attention. He remembered, later, realizing the truth, and the nights he had lain awake, staring at the acoustic-tile ceiling, calling himself every awful name he could imagine.
After that, North had understood. He’d understood when Shaw started bawling on the quad after seeing a candlelight vigil for Jo Kopel, who had died in a car accident. He’d understood when Shaw had taken all of North’s Progresso soup and hauled the cans to a food bank in a wire shopping cart because he’d read an article about shortages. He’d understood after Shaw’s grandmother had died and Shaw had worn a black armband for six months, and he’d meant it—North had been the one who had listened to his sobs at night, who had gone into that dark room smelling like eucalyptus and weed and finger-combed Shaw’s hair until he fell asleep. That had been one of the rare fights he and Tucker had before their wedding: Tucker wanted Shaw out of the wedding party if Shaw insisted on wearing the armband, and North had refused to give up his best man.
And it wasn’t that Shaw wallowed. It wasn’t that he sulked, or that he was a crybaby, or that he was seeking attention. It was simple: every grief was the first one; Shaw had no scar tissue to desensitize him. What North feared was that one of these times would send Shaw back into the same place he had gone after the Slasher attack, because North didn’t know if he could bring Shaw back from that again. Finding Hiwet dead had been bad enough. For Shaw to have seen that video, to have seen what Flip had done to himself, was much worse.
“Let’s get you home. I bet Dr. Farr will FaceTime you.”
“North, I’m fine. Really.”
North opened his mouth, but his phone vibrated. An unknown number. He answered.
“He’s here. He’s definitely here. He’s sitting in the parking lot; I can see him.”
It took a moment to place the voice. “Danny?”
In a hysterical whisper, Danny repeated, “He’s here.” After a few hyperventilated breaths, he managed to say, “I pushed the bed up against the door, but there’s a big window. He can get in through the window.”
“Where are you?”
“A motel. I went to a motel like you told me. You told me I’d be safe, and Lee is out there. I can see him in his car. He’s watching my room.” Danny released a low, despairing moan. “I think he just saw me. I pulled back the curtain to check, and he was looking right at me.”
“Did you use a credit card?”
More of those rapid, shallow breaths. And then, in a protesting whine, “They won’t let you use the internet unless—”
“For fuck’s sake, Danny.” North managed to bite off the rest of it. “Give me the name of the motel. If he gets out of his car, call the police and lock yourself in the bathroom. Until then, don’t move. Not one fucking inch.”
“It’s called Bertrand Rooms-4-Rent. It’s a four like the number. I’m in room twenty-nine.”
“Fine. Let me figure some things out, and I’ll call you back.”
“He’s right out there. He’s going to do something really, really bad this time. I can tell by his face.”
“Keep an eye on him. If he gets out of the car, you call the police and then lock yourself in the bathroom. Say it back to me.”
Danny sounded on the break of tears. “If he—if he gets out of the car, I call the police.”
“And then?”
“Lock myself in the bathroom.”
“Good job. I’ll call you back.”
He disconnected, cutting off another terrified moan from Danny. Straightening from his crouch, he put a hand on the top of the door to shut it, but Shaw prevented him by holding out a hand.
“What are we going to do about Danny?”
“Nothing. We’re going to make sure you’re ok. I’ll send Truck and Pari; Pari is desperate for a chance to use that new taser.”
“I’m fine, North.”
“I like hearing that. Keep telling me that.”
When North tried to close the door, Shaw pushed it open again. “This is serious. This isn’t an ordinary case. Ronnie wanted us involved in it for a reason. I don’t think it’s safe to send Pari and Truck; I think we should be the ones to handle it.”
“That’s the exact opposite of what you told me last time. Last time, you said Ronnie was manipulating me into getting over-involved. Now you’re telling me I’m under-involved. This is a simple job: they drive down there, pick up Danny, and either bring him back or get him on a bus.”
“What if Lee is going to hurt Danny really bad? What if he’s going to kill him?”
“He’s not going to kill him. What if this is all just a decoy to get us out of town so Ronnie can try again at the Nonavie lab?”
“He’s going to kill him,” Shaw said. His eyes were huge; the pupils obliterated the hazel irises. Voice rising, Shaw began to repeat with breathless intensity, “He’s going to kill him, he’s going to kill him, he’s going to kill him, he’s going to—”
“Fine, fine, fine, fine, fine!” The last one was a shout, loud enough to cut Shaw off. Shaw drew a shaky breath and wiped his face. The old oaks creaked and groaned. The air shifted and carried a tang; someone had fertilized their fields recently. “You’re freaking me out.”
“If you don’t want to go, I’ll go by myself.”
“Yeah? With what car?”
“I’ll rent one.”
“Jesus Christ.”
“Maybe it would be better. You stay here in case Ronnie tries something. I’ll go get Danny.”
“Move your goddamn arm so I can close the goddamn door.”
“I’ll call Hertz right now.”
“Move your fucking arm!”
The ammonia smell of the fertilizer hammered between North’s eyes, the tattoo of a migraine just getting started. He shut Shaw’s door, moved around to the car, and stood there. He stared at the trees for a ten count. Wind slapped the oaks hard, and fragile buds fell in a shower that sounded like rain on an old roof. Then he opened the driver door and got behind the wheel.
“I’m scared shitless,” North said as he put the key in the ignition.
Wan and colorless, Shaw nodded and looked out the window.
“About you, I mean.”
“I knew what you meant.”
Before they left, North called Haw and explained as much of the situation as he could.
“I don’t understand,” she said when he’d finished. “What is this guy’s connection to Nonavie? How would anybody even know you were going out of town?”
“It’s a long story; just trust me. If someone’s going to try something, it might be now.”
“I’ll head over there myself. I want to hear this long story when you get back.”
North figured telling her would be a quick way to get them fired, so he made a noncommittal noise and disconnected. Then he called Danny and told him they were on their way.
“North,” Shaw said. “If Ronnie is using Danny to lure us somewhere, maybe I shouldn’t take the Nonavie access card with me.”
“Shit,” North said. “We’re really racking up the miles today.”
From the Chittenden’s farm, they drove back to St. Louis, and North waited in the car while Shaw ran into the Southampton duplex to stash the access card. When he came back, he offered a lusterless smile. “Pari is teaching the puppy to roll over, and she’s lying on the floor demonstrating.”
“Sounds like the puppy is teaching her to roll over. Maybe next he’ll teach her ‘down’ and ‘stay’ and ‘quiet.’”
Shaw smiled again, like winter sunlight, and rested his head against the passenger window.
The Bertrand Rooms-4-Rent was east of Sikeston, on US-60, next to a lot with corrugated-metal fencing and a sign advertising RENICH DUMPING – 24/7 – WE TAKE YOUR DUMPS FOR YOU. In contrast to this spiffy advertising scheme, the Bertrand Rooms-4-Rent had settled for the more traditional accoutrements of a sign with its name and, below it, a flashing neon sign announcing VACANCIES. The lot was paved, the asphalt buckling along the edges, the yellow lines faded into ghostly suggestions. Four other cars occupied stalls in front of the motel: a panel van with TREVOR ELECTRICIANS stenciled on the sides; a pinkish Toyota All-Trac that had probably once been red; a Cavalier with a crumpled rear fender; and a Missouri staple, the white Ford F-150 with steel balls hanging from its trailer hitch.
They parked in front of room twenty-nine.
“I don’t see Lee,” North said.
Shaw shook his head.
Squeezing Shaw’s fingers, North gave him a considering look.
“Do you want me to go in and get him?” Shaw asked.
“No. I’m trying to decide if leaving you here is the equivalent of forgetting a baby in a hot car.”
Shaw rolled his eyes; it looked like it took effort.
North tapped his lips. More eye-rolling. But then Shaw leaned over the seat and kissed him.
“I get so worried about you,” North whispered, smoothing Shaw’s tied-back hair. “Tell me what I can do.”
“I swear to God, I’m fine. Really.”
Clearing his throat, North nodded. “If Lee does show up, feel free to blast him with that pepper gel.”
“Duh. And I’ll chop him in the nuts a few times.”
“God help him.”
North’s phone buzzed as he approached the motel. He checked the phone, saw Joanna Griffin’s name, and dismissed the call with an irritated swipe. He did not want to hear another excuse about why he shouldn’t take her to small claims for her unpaid account, not with the day he was already having. He hammered on the door to twenty-nine and said, “Danny? It’s North. Open up.”
A picture window with thin, wavy glass opened the wall next to the door. The curtain twitched. Then furniture groaned inside, a bolt was thrown back, and the door opened on a chain. It was the same jug-eared kid with the same mess of long, sandy-brown hair.
“How do I know you are who you say you are?”
“Danny, it’s the wrong fucking day to test my patience.”
The boy swallowed, undid the chain, and poked his head out. “I swear to God he was here. He left twenty minutes ago. I was going to try to hitch, but then I thought he might come back and catch me on the road.”
“You were going to try to hitch? Jesus Christ, I told you not to fucking move.”
“You can’t yell at me,” the kid said, shrinking back. “You’re not supposed to yell at me.”
North let out a brief, inarticulate scream and then managed to say, “Get in the fucking car.”
After a few minutes of packing, the kid staggered out to the GTO, his roller bag slapping against his leg. North threw the bag in the trunk, and the kid stared doubtfully at the GTO’s back seat.
“Do I have to climb over your seat?”
“Mary, Mother of God,” North growled and adjusted the seat so Danny could get in the back.
They drove to the parking lot of an Arby’s, where Danny devoured two roast beef and cheddars and started crying halfway through his chocolate shake. That seemed to knock Shaw out of his torpor. He read Danny’s palm and opened his third eye—or tried to, anyway, which mostly seemed to consist of flicking Danny on the forehead while Danny squirmed and flinched and said he didn’t think it was working. Then he gave a long, meandering speech that dealt with such topics as the time Shaw had met an erotic ghost in the Palace of Versailles, the American steel industry, and recreational use of peyote as a civil rights issue. Peppered through the speech was the phrase “the power was inside me all along,” which Shaw made Danny repeat back to him at key moments.
North murdered some curly fries and enjoyed his front row seat to this new shit-show. If this kid was a plant by Ronnie, Danny was wasting his talent on a con like this; he should have been doing theater on Broadway or infiltrating a terrorist cell. North dodged a phone call from his dad, caught the drift from the first words of the voicemail: no hello, only “You have a goddamn responsibility to pay your uncle back. I didn’t raise you to welch—” And then North hit delete. He considered, briefly, the strangeness of Ronnie’s silence after he had contacted them with this job. There had been no follow-ups, and Ronnie had avoided North’s attempts to contact him. He thought, again, about how eager Ronnie had been to be seen on the security camera footage. And he thought about Shaw’s oblique comment about bank robberies. After a while, though, North gave it up and turned his attention back to the dynamic dufuses.
After many, many, many conversations about their best options, they got Danny loaded onto a Greyhound headed for Los Angeles. He had an aunt there who would give him a place to stay—or so he told them. North wasn’t entirely convinced that he wasn’t just heading for the gay-boy fantasy of southern California. North repeated his warning about credit cards, and Danny nodded dutifully and, when he must have thought North wasn’t looking, rolled his eyes at Shaw. Shaw, the little shit, rolled his eyes back. And then Danny was on the bus, and the bus was pulling away, and they headed back to St. Louis.
