The beginning of the question made Jason wince, imagining all the things his nephew might be wishing. All the things he had a right to but could no longer have. In truth, he was scared to even know what the boy had in mind, but if he was going to be the man in the picture, the one standing by Billy, he may as well start here. "What do you wish, buddy?"
"I wish we'd never gone down there. To the basement." Billy spoke to the floor. "If we'd left instead, we wouldn't have been there. Everything would be okay."
Jason cocked his head, wondering if he was missing something. Down to the basement, was that code? Then he realized what Billy was saying, Wham!, like a million volts rattling up his spine. Was it even possible? Could it be? "Your dad took you into the basement the day the men came?"
Billy nodded. Jason straightened, put his hands on Billy's shoulders to stare him in the face. "I have to ask you a question. It's important. Can you think about it very carefully?"
His nephew nodded.
"Did he bring anything with him?" Jason remembering the last time he'd seen Michael, the guy fidgeting with that briefcase, moving it here and there. Never able to find a spot he seemed to feel comfortable leaving it.
Billy looked up and to the left. His tongue wormed through his lips as he concentrated. A long moment passed. Then, "Yes." He brightened like he'd gotten the right answer to a quiz. "He brought a bag."
"A briefcase?"
"Uh-huh."
Jesus. Could it be that simple? Could Billy have had the answer all along?
Of course he could. All he'd needed was for Jason to be around to ask. Being an uncle had just walloped being a soldier. Umm, duh, he heard Michael saying. 'Bout time you pulled your head out of your ass.
He smiled at his nephew. "Thanks, kiddo. You're a genius."
"I am?"
Jason nodded solemnly. "Oh yeah." He ruffled the kid's hair, then stood and started for the door. He had to talk to Cruz, let her know. And Washington. They had to start planning. Get the car out-
He froze, one hand on the doorframe. Took a breath, turned around.
Billy sat in the center of the room, right where he had been. His eyes were wide and one lip was trembling.
Idiot.
Jason walked back to his nephew, dropped to an easy squat. "I did it again, didn't I?"
Billy nodded.
"I'm sorry." He kept his head level with the boy's, trying not to be an authority figure. "I'll learn." He paused. "Will you help me?"
Billy sniffed damply, regarded him with sober eyes, and said, "Okay."
"Okay." Jason nodded. He hesitated, wondered how much to say. Then remembered how it had felt to do the right thing with Billy, how he'd felt the Worm loosen its grip. "That briefcase your father took to the basement? That's what the bad guys were looking for. That's why they came. Do you understand?"
Billy nodded. "Like in the movies."
"Yeah, pretty much. And before, I thought that they had gotten it. But now I bet your dad hid it. You with me?"
"Uh-huh."
"Here's the thing." He took a breath, made himself speak calmly, like there was nothing to be afraid of. "The bad guys, they still want that case. And they want to catch us, because we've seen them. They're very – do you know what determined means?"
Billy sighed.
"Right. Right. Sorry. They're very determined. They'll keep coming back."
"Why don't we go away? Somewhere they can't find us?"
It wasn't a bad question. Hell, it was one Jason had asked himself. But where would they go? Moving to a new city wouldn't do it. They could never be sure that Galway or DiRisio wouldn't decide it was too big a risk to let them be. They'd end up living like criminals – running, dodging, hiding. "Well, we could. But they might keep coming after us."
"How do we stop them?"
Jason started to answer, stopped himself. "Well, what do you think?"
Billy sucked his lower lip into his mouth, his eyes moving down and around like the answer might be on the floor. Then, suddenly, he looked up. "The briefcase."
A warmth spread through Jason's chest, a weird feeling he'd never known. Was this what parenting was? Had Michael felt this way watching Billy tie his shoes or do crossword puzzles? "That's right, buddy. There's only one problem." He paused. "I'd have to leave you to go get it."
Billy's hand snatched his own, clung hard.
"It's okay. Take it easy. I want to stay with you. But I don't want more men coming after us, and I think the briefcase could make sure of that." He paused. "I think I should go. I think it will keep you safe. But I won't if you don't want me to." Jason squeezed Billy's hand, looked him in the eye. "It's up to you, kiddo."
He stared at the boy, this eight-year-old with his brother's face. Shoulders thin under the gray Army T-shirt. Skin pale and sticky with tears. Stared and wished for a magic wand, a bag of fairy dust, whatever it took to reverse time and give this poor boy his father back, his life back.
And then Billy said, "Okay," and let go of his hand.
CHAPTER 31
Anthony DiRisio stood in front of the windows, arms at his side. Hell of a view. The skyline to the south, Lincoln Park spilling east, beyond that, the lake, blue-gray water dotted with colorful sails.
Elena Cruz lived pretty good for a policewoman.
The jerkwad cops that had searched the place earlier had closed up behind them, but the lock on the door was junk. He'd jamb-popped it with his knife and strolled in.
The apartment was a sizable one-bedroom with curved brick ceilings and a Murphy bed that folded back into the wall. He pulled it out just for kicks and lay down, his shoes up on the covers, fingers behind his head. A faint girl smell lingered in her pillows. After a moment, he sat up, opened the night table drawer. An Ondaatje novel, The English Patient. He'd seen the movie, liked it all right. A tube of lip balm. A snapshot of a Hispanic woman with a moustache. A silver vibrator. He turned it on. The batteries were low, the thing barely humming. He smiled, turned it off, put it back.
The cops had been after evidence, bundles of hundreds or sacks of weapons. They'd have checked the toilet tank and tapped for loose floorboards, felt the pockets of coats and the seams of the sofa. DiRisio was hoping for something more abstract, something that hinted where she might be.
He worked steadily but swiftly. Skipped the bathroom, skipped the kitchen. There was a mound of dirty clothes on her closet floor. Her dresser contained folded shirts and jeans, a tangle of underwear. He held up soft thong-cut panties, Vickie's Secret, size small. A potpourri sachet made them smell like cinnamon. Nice. If Palmer was tapping her, he was in for a treat.
No diary, no appointment book, no day planner.
He moved to the living room where she kept her desk. Sifted through paper clips and pens. A silver half dollar. A small chunk of amber. A rabbit's foot. An abandoned network cable ran from the wall to the desk. Shit. The cops had her computer. He'd like to have gone through it.
"Where are you, honey?" Looked around the room. Opened a cabinet. DVDs, a board game. "Come to daddy." Checked the fridge. A couple beers, some mismatched takeout containers, a bottle of Sriracha, a lime that had seen better days, a quarter-inch of milk in a gallon jug. Not a homebody, then.
Something moved behind him.
DiRisio spun fast, dropping as he went, right arm swinging out in an arc, pistol leading the way.
An orange and white cat with green eyes stared at him over the SIG's dot-and-bars. The cat blinked. The cat yawned.
Anthony DiRisio smiled.
"Hi, kitty," he said. "Come here."
CHAPTER 32