"Christ," he said, "am I glad to see you, asshole. Where's the kid?"
I did not dignify him with a reply.
"Aw, what's the matter? Kitty-cat got your tongue?"
He holstered his gun and reached into his pocket as he came toward me. "Maybe this'll loosen things up a little."
He produced and opened a pocket knife. He cut the piece of rope around my head that was keeping the gag in place. Then he fished in my mouth with the blade and drew out the gag. A very damp gray sock. I could feel the wool hairs in my mouth but decided it would be impolite to spit. I swiveled my head and worked my jaws.
"Now," he said, "where's the kid?"
"He went out for Eggs McMuffin."
Blakey backhanded me on the left side of my face. I rolled awkwardly down the sill and banged my elbow hitting the floor. Blakey then kicked me hard in the back of my left thigh.
"I figure it's about sixty feet to the ground, wise-ass. A fall like that'd cover a lot of bruises."
My leg wouldn't work. "I don't know where he is, Blakey."
"I thought maybe he was gonna burn you at the stake, like a babysitter on TV."
I decided to try a smile. "He may yet."
Blakey smiled and crossed his arms, coplike. "You know, he's a fuckin' crazy kid. You know that."
"Then why do you want him back?" I asked, then clenched, fearing I'd unintentionally hit close to a nerve.
"What would I want him for?" he said warily. "It's the judge who wants him back. Back in the nuthouse where he belongs."
I unclenched and pursued the matter a little. "Then why all the cloak-and-dagger stuff? Why didn't the judge just let me help you find him?"
The smile passed. "None of your fuckin' business."
"Wouldn't have anything to do with a midnight swim four years back, would it?"
The lips curled back into a smile I didn't like. "The judge told you to stay out of this. The judge and me both. I warned you." His smile grew wider. "Remember?" he said huskily.
"I meant to tell you, you've got a sweet phone voice, pal."
Blakey stopped smiling. "This time the kid takes the blame. This time some local cop and I find you at the bottom of the ladder, with six slugs from the kid's twenty-two in you. Then I bring the kid to the nuthouse and call the judge. The judge takes it from there."
"Why not just kill the kid?" I asked, to gain some time.
Blakey laughed. "Boy, you are a cold-hearted bastard. I'll tell you why. It makes it tougher to explain why you're dead. And once I figured, sittin' by that broken-ass shed all night, that you'd spotted me, you had to get dead."
I thought I should argue that point. "What about the clerk in the hardware store? He can identify you."
Blakey unfolded his arms, and his face darkened.
"How did you…?" Then he laughed. "Oh, I get it. You figured out that's how I found you. Well, you're right, but that clerk won't know whether I found you here alive or dead."
I definitely didn't like his tone, but I was running out of deflections.
"Just in case you might try and warn the kid, you're gonna hafta go to sleep for a while. But first," he said, as he wrapped a handkerchief around his knuckles, "a little warm-up for your swan dive."
I got my left leg, the one he'd kicked, to bend a little. "I've got a secret about the kid that I'd like to share with you first."
"Nice try, asshole," he said as he cocked his fist.
"You think the kid'll climb up when he sees the open hatch?"
Blakey straightened up. He looked at the hatch and pursed his lips. "Maybe you're right." He ambled over and lowered the hatch. What I didn't mention was that Stephen, who must have made the climb a dozen times or more, sure as hell would notice the broken rung on the ladder. I was banking that with the hatch shut, Blakey wouldn't notice him noticing. Blakey walked back to me, and I tried to think of more episodes of the Arabian Nights. No luck.
"I've got another secret about Stephen," I said.
"What is it?" he replied.
"If I keep telling you secrets, will you keep me awake?" I thought about what Thom Doucette had said regarding Blakey's sensitivity.
"What the fuck is it?" he demanded.
"Well," I said, fluttering my eyelids, "Stephen told I me that big, strong court officers really turn him on." Blakey bent down and gave me a wicked shot at the back of the right side of my jaw and front of my ear. The other side of my head bounced off the floor. He then grabbed my shirt with both hands and lifted me to a semi-standing position. I'd known my only chance was to get him mad enough to treat me as harmless. He held my shirt with his left hand and let fly with his right. Before his fist could connect, I used his left hand as an anchorpoint and flipped back as violently as I could. With his left holding me, that brought my feet up toward his groin, and I lashed out with all the kick I could manage.
I cracked my head against the sill as I came down. My eyes wouldn't focus. I could see one and a half of him doubled over, with his three hands futilely trying to stem the spread of a dark stain at the crotch of his pants.
I shook my head as clear as I could and then levered onto my back. I swung my legs at his head and connected, but I got the impression that I'd only distracted him from his more immediate concern. As I flopped around, he swung backhand at my side, and I felt a rib break. The pain was incredible, and I prayed that it hadn't punctured a lung. Then he clouted me in the face with another backhand that sent me back into the sill. I could feel the room slipping away, and I knew I was going under. Thenheard a clacking noise, like a softball player opening a pop-top beer can. Then another and another and… A tree fell and pinned my legs under it.
Twenty-Fifth
– ¦ I couldn't move my legs, but I could rub them against each other a little. They felt sticky, as if ice cream had melted on them but hadn't quite dried. I opened the one eye that would open. The room was still light. The tree across my legs was Blakey. He was half on his side, and his blood had soaked through his pants. And mine.
His head was about fifteen inches from my eyes, but his face was turned away from me. The back of his neck looked funny. There were round, raw holes in it, two just above his hairline. It was as if someone had thrown large, blunt darts at him, darts that had first stuck in, then had fallen away. There was one downward trickle of blood from each hole. I fell asleep again.
The next time I woke up, someone was pouring water into my mouth. Just a little. It tasted salty, probably from the dehydrated blood flakes in my mouth. I opened my eyes. It was nearly dark. Stephen was over me. Blakey was not in sight. Stephen's hands were dirty.
"Blakey?" I croaked.
"I took care of him," he answered.
I dropped back off to sleep.
I woke up to birds singing, light again, and more water. I felt weak but not much pain. Then I noticed that my hands were untied. I started to get up, and it felt as if someone set off an A-bomb in my left side. I stopped breathing and clenched my teeth. As I eased back down, so did the pain.
"Do you think you can handle some bread?"
He was behind me in the room. "Yes," I said.
"You won't try to grab me?"
"No."
"Okay."
I looked down at my feet. Still securely tied. Given my present condition, I figured about two undisturbed weeks would let me get the knots undone.
He came into my vision. He was wearing a polo shirt and loose-fitting hiking pants, cut like baggy army fatigues. He stopped three feet from me and lobbed a hunk of bread at me. It landed on Blakey's bloodstain, which had already dried. There were about ten ants nibbling at the edge of the stain.
"Still don't trust me, huh?" I said as I picked up the bread.
"A1most," he said.
In real life, he certainly appeared much older than fourteen. His face was somber and intelligent and his movements measured and sure, with none of the awkwardness of adolescence. There were still traces of blond in his dark hair, as though the sun were shining on him.