That hurt. He wanted more than almost anything else for his father to be proud of him. Dad’s disappointment in him was like a festering sore. It altered their entire relationship, making Jack want to avoid a man he loved and respected.
He was tempted to lay it out for him—put all the lies aside and tell him what his son really did for a living.
Alarmed at the trend of his thoughts, Jack straightened up in his chair and got a grip on himself. That was the Jack Daniels talking. Leveling with his father would accomplish nothing. First off, he wouldn’t believe it; and if he believed it, he wouldn’t understand; and if he believed and understood, he’d be horrified… just like Gia.
“You like what you’re doing, don’t you, Dad?” he said finally.
“Yes. Very much. And you would, too, if—”
“I don’t think so.” After all, what was his father making besides money? He was buying and selling, but he wasn’t producing anything. Jack didn’t mention this to his father—it would only start an argument. The guy was happy, and the only thing that kept him from being completely at peace with himself was his youngest son. If Jack could have helped him there he would have. But he couldn’t. So he only said, “I like what I’m doing. Can’t we leave it at that?”
Dad said nothing.
The phone rang. He went into the kitchen to answer it. A moment later he came out again.
“It’s for you. A woman. She sounds upset.”
The lethargy that had been slipping over Jack suddenly dropped away. Only Gia had this number. He pushed himself out of the chair and hurried to the phone.
“Nellie’s gone, Jack!”
“Where?”
“Gone! Disappeared! Just like Grace! Remember Grace? She was the one you were supposed to find instead of going to diplomatic receptions with your Indian lady friend.”
“Calm down, will you? Did you call the cops?”
“They’re on their way.”
“I’ll see you after they leave.”
“Don’t bother. I just wanted you to know what a good job you’ve done!”
She hung up.
“Something the matter?” his father asked.
“Yeah. A friend’s been hurt.” Another lie. But what was one more added to the mountain of lies he had told people over the years? “Gotta get back to the city.” They shook hands. “Thanks. It’s been great. Let’s do it again soon.”
He had his racquet and was out to his car before Dad could warn him about driving after all those drinks. He was fully alert now. Gia’s call had evaporated all effects of the alcohol.
Jack was in a foul mood as he drove up the Turnpike. He’d really blown this one. It hadn’t even occurred to him that if one sister disappeared, the other might do the same. He wanted to push the car to eighty but didn’t dare. He turned on the Fuzzbuster and set the cruise control at fifty-nine. The best radar detector in the world wouldn’t protect you from the cop driving behind you at night and clocking you on his speedometer. Jack figured no one would bother him if he kept it just under 60.
At least the traffic was light. No trucks. The night was clear. The near-full moon hanging over the road was flat on one edge, like a grapefruit someone had dropped and left on the floor too long.
As he passed Exit 6 and approached the spot where his mother had been killed, his thoughts began to flow backwards in time. He rarely permitted that. He preferred to keep them focused on the present and the future; the past was dead and gone. But in his present state of mind he allowed himself to remember a snowy winter night almost a month after his mother’s death…
13
He had been watching the fatal overpass every night, sometimes in the open, sometimes in the bushes. The January wind ate at his face, chapped his lips, numbed his fingers and toes. Still he waited. Cars passed, people passed, time passed, but no one threw anything off.
February came. A few days after the official groundhog had supposedly seen its shadow and returned to its burrow for another six weeks of winter, it snowed. An inch was on the ground already and at least half a dozen more predicted. Jack stood on the overpass looking at the thinning southbound traffic slushing along beneath him. He was cold, tired, and ready to call it a night.
As he turned to go, he saw a figure hesitantly approaching through the snow. Continuing his turning motion, Jack bent, scooped up some wet snow, packed it into a ball, and lobbed it over the cyclone fencing to drop on a car below. After two more snowballs, he glanced again at the figure and saw that it was approaching more confidently now. Jack stopped his bombardment and stared at the traffic as if waiting for the newcomer to pass. But he didn’t. He stopped next to Jack.
“Whatcha putting in them?”
Jack looked at him. “Putting in what?”
“The snowballs.”
“Get lost.”
The guy laughed. “Hey, it’s all right. Help yourself.” He held out a handful of walnut-sized rocks.
Jack sneered. “If I wanted to throw rocks I could sure as hell do better’n those.”
“This is just for starters.”
The newcomer, who said his name was Ed, laid his stones atop the guard rail, and together they formed new snowballs with rocky cores. Then Ed showed him a spot where the fencing could be stretched out over the road to allow room for a more direct shot… a space big enough to slip a cinderblock through. Jack managed to hit the tops of trucks with his rock-centered snowballs or miss completely. But Ed landed a good share of his dead center on oncoming windshields.
Jack watched his face as he threw. Not much was visible under the knitted cap pulled down to his pale eyebrows and above the navy peacoat collar turned up around his fuzzy cheeks, but there was a wild light in Ed’s eyes as he threw his snowballs, and a smile as he saw them smash against the windshields. He was getting a real thrill out of this.
That didn’t mean Ed was the one who had dropped the cinderblock that killed his mother. He could be just another one of a million petty terrorists who got their jollies destroying or disfiguring something that belonged to someone else. But what he was doing was dangerous. The road below was slippery. The impact of one of his special snowballs—even if it didn’t shatter the windshield—could cause a driver to swerve or slam on his breaks. And that could be lethal under the present conditions.
Either that had never crossed Ed’s mind, or it was what had brought him out tonight.
It could be him.
Jack fought to think clearly. He had to find out. And he had to be absolutely sure.
Jack made a disgusted noise. “Fucking waste of time. I don’t think we even cracked one.” He turned to go. “See ya.”
“Hey!” Ed said, grabbing his arm. “I said we’re just getting started.”
“This is diddley-shit.”
“Follow me. I’m a pro at this.”
Ed led him down the road to where a 280-Z was parked. He opened the trunk and pointed to an icy cinderblock wedged up against the spare tire.
“You call that diddley-shit?”
It took all of Jack’s will to keep from leaping upon Ed and tearing his throat out with his teeth. He had to be sure. What Jack was planning left no room for error. There could be no going back and apologizing for making a mistake.
“I call that big trouble,” Jack managed to say. “You’ll get the heat down on you somethin’ awful.”
“Naw! I dropped one of these bombs last month. You shoulda seen it—perfect shot! Right in somebody’s lap!”