But it'll be something, Jack thought. All I need is one thing… anything… just one little thing, and Plan A goes into effect.
They hung around the window, Cordova calibrating and testing the low-light image intensifiers on his cameras, Jack studying Brady through the window. He watched him leaf through some big, antique-looking book, a hungry look in his eyes. What was it? Ancient porn?
Unlike his burning rage against Cordova, Jack felt cold, clinical, almost detached about Brady. He could torture Cordova, do to him what he'd done to Sister Maggie, and not feel an instant's regret or remorse. But that wouldn't do for Brady. Jack had other plans for him, plans that Brady might well find worse than torture.
"I say we give it an hour or so," Cordova said, now that his cameras were ready.
"We stay until we get something or he goes to bed, whichever comes first."
"Lemme tell you something: I ain't standing out here freezing my ass off till God knows when."
Jack put a hand on Cordova's shoulder, just as he'd done back in the car.
"Please, Mr. Cordova. I told you how much this means to me."
He leaned away from Jack's hand. "And I told you how I feel about being touched. Now lay off, got it? If we—"
Through the window Jack saw Brady pull a cell phone from the pocket of his robe.
"Hey. Looks like he's getting a call."
He and Cordova watched Brady go to the stereo and turn down the volume, then smile as he spoke on the phone. When the call ended, he upped the music again, and closed the big old book he'd been reading.
"This could be it," Jack said.
Cordova grunted. "And it could be nothing. But he sure do look happy, don't he. Wouldn't be surprised if—oh, shit!"
Brady had carried the book to the center of the room where he knelt and pulled up a trapdoor that perfectly matched the rest of the floor. He started down into the basement.
"If he stays down there we're fucked," Cordova said.
Jack kept silent, watching. Moments later Brady reappeared and closed the trapdoor. What was down there? A secret library of some sort? Something that could be used against him? If the photos didn't work out, then maybe—
"Oh, man!" Cordova said.
Brady had tossed off his robe to reveal a well-toned, well-tanned body.
"Buffed and baked," Jack said. "This is good. This is very good."
Cordova was already snapping pictures. "Don't get too excited now."
Jack put on a huffy tone. "I beg your pardon?"
"I mean, this kind of beefcake ain't gonna hurt him. Might get him lots of calls from the ladies, though. Or the guys. Maybe even—holy shit!"
Jack watched, fascinated, as Brady placed a feathered mask over his head, leaving only his eyes and mouth exposed. He examined himself in one of the mirrors, then slipped back into his robe.
Cordova's shutter was clicking like mad. "I got a feeling we might be heading for pay dirt."
"Shhh!" Jack whispered as he raised a gloved finger to his lips. "Is that a car?"
Cordova cupped a hand around an ear. "Damn right it is." He picked up his cameras and began moving away. "Let's ease back into the bushes and wait."
Jack followed him. They crouched in the brush as a pair of headlights became visible through the trees. Before long a Chevy van pulled up and stopped before the front door.
"Get a shot of the plates," Jack told Cordova. "I want those plates."
But Cordova already had his eye to the viewfinder. "So do I."
A gray-haired man about Cordova's age, but whippet lean, was illuminated by the courtesy lights as he stepped out of the van. He opened a rear door and out hopped two boys, maybe twelve years of age, fourteen tops. He ushered them up to the front door where Brady was waiting. After the boys were inside, the man returned to the car and drove away.
As soon as the car was out of sight Cordova was on the move toward the cabin, chortling. "Ho-ho-ho! The plot sickens!"
Jack hesitated, then followed.
Back at the window, he saw Brady offer the boys beers, then light up a joint and pass it around.
"Giving beer and pot to minors," Cordova said. "That's a good start."
The kids looked fairly comfortable, as if they were used to this sort of thing. Jack knew what they were: male prostitutes. Teenagers. "Chickens" to the trade. Usually kids kicked out of their homes because they're gay; they gravitate to cities but can't support themselves, so they wind up fodder for chicken hawks. And Brady was a chicken hawk.
Jack had hoped for something big to use against the man, but never imagined…
As Brady threw off the robe and the two boys began to undress, Jack moved away.
"Hey, where you going?" Cordova said.
"Back to the car."
Cordova's tone was mocking. "No jacking off now."
Jack wanted to kill him right there. Do an HVAC job on his skull, then burst through the door and do the same to Brady. But that wasn't in the plan. And it wouldn't change the lives of those two boys. They'd spend some time in the state child-welfare mill, then wind up back on the street.
The night sky seemed bright compared to the darkness in Jack's heart.
14
While Jack waited in the Jeep he got the Mikulski brothers' phone number from information. Brad, the older one, answered.
"It's me: Jack."
"Hey. What've you got for us?"
Jack never made social calls to the Mikulskis. This was no exception. But he wanted to be careful since he was on a cell phone.
"Got a New York license plate for you. Write this down." Jack recited it from memory. "You might want to do business with the guy."
"What's he into?"
"Chickens. Export and import, I believe.*"
"That so?"
"And I also believe he's ripe for a takeover bid."
"How ripe?"
"ASAP."
"All right. We'll get on it tomorrow. Thanks for the heads-up, man."
"My pleasure."
Jack ended the call, then leaned back in the passenger seat. Calling the Mikulskis in made him feel a little better. Weird pair, those two. Had a real jones for pedophiles. Didn't know what was in their past to make them that way, and didn't want to. But he did know they'd track that van, and if they witnessed what Jack was sure they would, a certain chicken runner would be out of business. Permanently.
Jack wanted him gone before the shit hit Brady's fan.
He shifted in the seat and felt something jab him in the thigh. He reached down and came up with a crucifix on a broken chain. Just like the one he'd seen hanging around Sister Maggie's neck.
Jack closed his eyes and tried to stay calm. The only thing that worked was repeating… it won't be long now … won't be long now … over and over.
Cordova showed up a few minutes later. He placed his cameras in the rear, then rolled onto the driver's seat. He laughed as he started the car.
"What's so funny?" Jack said.
"We got him! We got him six ways from Sunday! He's as good as dead! Even if those pictures don't land him in the slammer, he'll never be able to show his face again! He's gonna have to hide away in his little love nest and never come out!"
He laughed again and bounced in his seat like a kid who'd just been told that Christmas had been extended to 365 days a year.
Jack said, "I'd almost think that you had as much against him as I."
Cordova immediately sobered. "Oh, well, no, I mean I'm just always happy when an investigation comes through for the client. And you gotta admit, this puppy came through in spades. I can't wait to see those photos."