“You boys,” he said, shaking his head, “are going to get your asses in trouble someday, you know that?”
Jack Blackwell was sitting on Ian’s recliner. Had it leaned back so he could stretch his legs out. He was the older of the two, a little taller, a little thinner. Neither of them had much in the way of visible muscle, but Ian had seen the strength in those rangy frames at work, had seen the vise-tight grips of their unusually large hands, the way those long fingers could turn into steel bands. Jack had hair like a damned Beach Boy, hanging down to his collar, so light that it looked bleached. Dressed in faded, rumpled clothes, most of the time in black. His younger brother kept a different look, as if it were important to him to be separate from Jack, even if he never moved far from his side. Patrick could have passed for a Marine, had hair that was cut with a razor and not scissors, wore shirts with crisp creases, boots that shined. He was standing between the living room and the kitchen, arms folded. He never seemed to sit.
Ian said, “Stupid damn thing to do, you know that? Risky. I get one neighbor who watches you dumb bastards letting yourself in here, one neighbor who calls out a patrolman, and we’ve got major issues then. Fucking stupid, that’s what this is.”
Jack Blackwell said, “He lectures a lot.”
Patrick Blackwell said, “I’ve noticed. Most times, it’s about intelligence. Lack thereof, rather. You noticed that?”
“I have indeed.”
This was their routine. Talking to each other as if they were alone in the room. Creepy fuckers. Ian had heard it before, and he never did like it.
“Listen,” he said, “it’s been a long day, boys. I don’t have time to serve as the straight man for your act. Tell me what in the hell you’re doing here, and then get the hell out.”
“Hospitality is lacking too,” Jack Blackwell said.
“Noticeably so,” Patrick agreed. “Man stood out there on his porch and enjoyed a cold beer without so much as offering us one.”
“Didn’t appear to be his last beverage either. So the opportunity for the offer is there, certainly. And still it hasn’t been made.” Jack shook his head, looking at his brother. “You think this goes back a while? The lack of manners?”
“You’re suggesting his parents are to blame? That it was learned behavior?” Patrick pursed his lips, giving the matter due consideration. “We can’t say that with any level of certainty. But it’s possible. It’s possible.”
“Hey, dickheads?” Ian said, and he let his hand drift down to his gun. “I’m not fucking around here. If you’ve got something to say, now’s the time. Otherwise, get out.”
Jack was still looking at Patrick, but Patrick was watching Ian. Patrick said, “If I didn’t know better, I could interpret his attitude as threatening. Got his hand on his gun, even. You see that?”
Jack turned and fixed his pale blue eyes on Ian. “I had not. But you’re correct. It’s a threatening posture.”
Ian decided he was done with them, and the feel of the gun in his hand helped build his confidence. He reached for the door, twisted the knob, and pulled it open.
“Get out.”
Jack Blackwell let out a deep sigh, then lowered the recliner’s footrest and sat leaning forward, head down, arms braced on his knees.
“The boy is still gone. You were supposed to have intel by now. A location.”
Ian closed the door. “I’m working on it.”
Jack nodded slowly, the gesture of a man both understanding and disappointed. A father hearing his troubled son’s excuses; a priest listening to the confession of a repeated sin.
“Your sources with the marshals, Ian, are not what they were promised to be.”
“A great deal of hype,” Patrick agreed, “but very little result.”
“The kid isn’t in WITSEC,” Ian said. “Trust me.”
“Well, he’s also not at home. Trust us.”
“I understand that. But I’m telling you, he didn’t enter the program. My sources aren’t overhyped. They’re every bit as good as promised.”
“That would seem hard to believe at this point, based upon the evidence.”
“Give it time.”
“Time. Sure. Do you understand how this situation troubles us?” Jack said.
Ian felt a dull throb building behind his temples, a pulse of frustration that usually led to someone bleeding. He was not a man who handled frustration well. He’d understood for a while now that he might have made a mistake with this alliance, but for all their strange quirks and bizarre behavior, the Blackwell brothers were good. They did professional work and they did not make mistakes and they kept a low profile. They were cold and they were cruel but he understood men who were cold and cruel and in the end all he cared about was whether they were good at their jobs. The Blackwell brothers were that, if nothing else. His patience for their attitudes, though, was fading fast.
“That kid,” he said, “is a problem for me too. All of this comes back to me in the end, you better remember that. Better remember who pays you for your work.”
“The lectures again,” Patrick said, and shook his head. “You hearing this?”
“I am,” Jack said. “Appears to be questioning our level of understanding. Yet again.”
“Shut the fuck up,” Ian said. “That shit, the talking-like-I’m-not-here shit? End it. I’ll lay this out for you once, okay? The kid is not with WITSEC. If he ever is, I’ll know about it. He’s not right now. So your job is to figure out where he is. And do it fast.”
“There were rumors afloat,” Jack said. “You recall those, Patrick?”
“Negotiations with prosecutors. Are those the rumors you’re thinking of?”
“Well, it wasn’t the Cubs’ possibilities before the trade deadline. So it must have been that, yes.”
Ian was listening to them and wondering why in the hell he hadn’t driven away as soon as he saw the truck. He’d always been in control of these two, in theory at least, but he’d never felt that control. Now he was seeing the mistake in this association. A wise man didn’t rent attack dogs; he raised them himself. Why? Because he’d never be able to fully trust them otherwise.
“Listen,” he said, “I don’t know what in the hell you’re talking about, with the rumors and bullshit. Nobody wants this done more than me. The parents know where the boy is, you can count on that.”
“Does the mother talk to us, Patrick? What do you think?” This from Jack.
“Anyone will talk to us with proper encouragement. Or so we’ve found over the years.”
“True. But do the parents say what we need them to say in the course of our conversation?”
“A far more difficult question. They have, after all, nothing but the boy. In such circumstances, even the most persuasive approach may not be effective. It would depend upon the depth of their affection.”
“My point exactly. The parents also have watchers now. Law enforcement support, a prosecutor who is determined to use that boy as a critical witness and who probably has conned them into believing the boy can be kept safe, and all the boy has to do is simply appear in court. You might remember that we were told by Ian here to leave the scene without the boy, that we couldn’t waste time on a kid who, quote, ‘might not even have seen a thing.’ And that allowed the parents time to seek help. I would say, and you may correct me if you feel it’s necessary, that the parents are a very poor opening option.”
“I would concur,” Patrick said. He hadn’t taken his eyes off Ian. Lord, they were pale eyes. Ian hated their eyes, their stupid verbal games, their general demeanor. Even when you tried to piss them off, you couldn’t. He hadn’t succeeded in rattling those flat monotones yet.
“Then find another option,” Ian said. “That was your job. Go do it. Get the hell out of my house and do it.”