Parrish smiled to himself. Donovan might be more like his old man than the other two could possibly imagine. The question was, could Donovan himself be brought to imagine it? In time, in time…
Parrish turned and walked back toward the lodge. His temper was back under control now. He could focus his mind on making the best possible next move and face Kai and Quinn in a better state of mind. He would show them, once again, that he was master here-master of his sons and master of himself.
Irene Kelly had meddled again-the invasion of Kai’s home at this juncture was a nuisance, but it would not help police as much as she undoubtedly hoped it would. She would suffer for her interference.
He thought of Donovan’s report. He was pleased Donovan was keeping such a close eye on her. It was time, he decided, for the next phase of setting the trap.
TWENTY-SIX
At just about three o’clock on a gray October afternoon, I sat alone at a small table in the back corner of the Busy Bee Café, not far from the radio station, finishing a late lunch. I usually ate with a group from the station, but today I had worked through the noon hour to complete a story and hadn’t left the building until two.
However busy the bee was, the café was quiet at that hour. Like many small eateries in the district, it catered to the business crowd, open for breakfast and lunch only. So not long before closing, I was the last diner-or thought I was. I was finishing up a turkey sandwich when a florid-faced man came waddling through the door.
He made his way directly to my table, staring so intently as he loomed over me, I felt some alarm. Although his hair was reddish brown, it looked dyed, an act of vanity that was at odds with his otherwise careless appearance. His face was lined and puffy under the eyes. I judged him to be about sixty. He was wearing a sweat-stained, oversized T-shirt and looked as if he was smuggling half a beach ball under the front of it. His arms were brawny and his shoulders wide, making me think he was someone who had once been athletic but had long since devoted himself to inertia as a hobby.
In the next instant, I scolded myself for judging him in this way. Perhaps some illness or injury prevented him from being active. I knew nothing about the man.
“I know you!” he said, startling me. He plopped down in the only other chair at the table, effectively pinning me into the corner. I felt my back stiffen and looked around for an ally.
The place was empty. I heard the kitchen staff clattering pots and pans in the back, probably washing up. The waitress was nowhere to be seen. I took a calming breath, reached for my cell phone, and reminded myself that Ethan, Mark, and Lydia knew where I was. The waitress and other café staff were within shouting distance. Besides, it was nearly closing time, so they would probably be back out here soon-and tell him he’d have to look elsewhere for a meal.
He extended a large but stubby-fingered hand and said, “Roderick!”
When I didn’t take it, he pointed at me and said, “Irene Kelly! I’ve got a story for you.”
This happens to me now and then-not the pointing but the pestering. My photo used to run next to my byline in the Express, and the paper apparently hadn’t been dead long enough to allow me the lack of public recognition I preferred. “Great. Please feel free to call the station and suggest it. Now, if you don’t mind, I’ve got to leave. I’m on a deadline.”
“Already tried. They don’t get it at the radio station, but I think you will. You can talk them into it. I’ll walk you over there.”
“No, Roderick, you won’t. Now-”
“I just need someone to listen to me! What the fuck is wrong with you people?”
My apprehensiveness went up another notch. If I called for help from the back, he could be over the table before anyone came out to see what was wrong. And they might not do anything right away. I could try using my new self-defense skills, if I could get out from behind the table. But if he was as volatile and hostile as I thought he might be, I should call in the professionals.
“I’m sorry you’ve been frustrated,” I tried in a placatory tone while at the same time pressing 9 and 1 on the phone. Before I could get the next 1 entered, he reached across the table with surprising speed and knocked the phone from my hand.
I drew a breath for a scream, but before I could let it out, a commanding voice said, “Stand up and step away from her table. Do it now.”
I caught a glimpse of a tall, golden-haired man before he was blocked from my view by Roderick, who stood and turned angrily toward the stranger. Roderick took a step forward, his right fist raised to deliver a punch.
“You don’t want to try it,” the man said.
Roderick froze in place, then suddenly looked as if someone had taken the air out of him. His shoulders sagged, and he stared down at his feet. “I didn’t do anything wrong!”
“Get out,” the man said, “and don’t ever bother this woman again. Do you understand me?”
Roderick started to push past him with ill grace, but the man put a flat hand on his chest. “Do you understand me?” he said again, more quietly but somehow with greater menace.
“Yes!” Roderick said.
“Fine. We’re going to wait here for you to get down the street and around the corner. Do not look back. Do not try to follow either of us. Understood?”
Roderick nodded. The man stepped aside, and Roderick left.
The man, who looked to be in his early thirties, turned to me and said, “Are you all right?”
I was shaking. “Yes, thank you. That was-that was good of you.”
He smiled slightly and bent to pick up my phone, glanced at it, then pulled out his own and asked me if I wanted him to call the police.
I pictured what that might bring on, especially from well-meaning friends.
“No, thanks,” I said. I was disappointed in myself-I used to be able to handle the Rodericks of this world without falling apart.
My rescuer brought my phone to me just as the waitress came out to say, “Sorry, we’re closed.”
I quickly explained what had happened. Her eyes widened and she quickly locked the door, as if expecting Roderick to return. I felt shakier still.
The man spoke up. “Why don’t you bring a cup of”-he turned to me-“coffee? Tea?”
“Hot tea, thanks,” I said, turning to her. “If it won’t be too much trouble?”
“Not at all!” she said. “And for you, sir?”
“Hot tea sounds good,” he said, sitting at the next table, giving me, I noticed, some space-and positioning himself to watch the door.
“Thank you again,” I said.
“You’re welcome,” he said. “Is your phone working?”
I tried turning it on. “Hell. He broke it.”
“Do you want me to find him, get him to pay for it?”
I shook my head. “No, the less I see of Roderick, the better. I want no excuses for him to remain in contact with me.”
He studied me briefly and said, “Are you feeling faint?”
“Just a little wobbly. I’ll be okay in a minute.”
“Add sugar to that tea,” he recommended and went back to watching the door.
The waitress brought the tea, I added the sugar to mine, and with each sip, I felt myself grow calmer.
The man drank his, sitting there quietly, keeping guard.
“I’m Irene,” I said. “Irene Kelly.”
He smiled ruefully. “At the risk of freaking you out, I know. You used to work for the Express, and now you work for KCLP. I’ve thought about contacting you several times.”
“Oh?” I said, surprised but not feeling threatened. His manner was entirely different from Roderick’s.
“Yes. When you worked for the paper, you wrote a series about people who were missing-including one about missing children, right?”
“Yes. The series started a long time ago, with my mentor,” I said, thinking wistfully of O’Connor. Then the import of his question hit me. “Is someone in your family missing?”