Devin said, “Patrick’s father knew about the damage to the windshield. He and his EEPA friends hunt it down, find Hardiman and Rugglestone…”
“EEPA killed Rugglestone,” Oscar said with a note of shock in his voice.
Bolton looked at the file, then at me, then back at the file. He peered at it, and his lips moved as he read over the section detailing Rugglestone’s wounds. When he looked at me, the flesh on his face drooped and his mouth opened. “You’re right,” he said softly. “You’re right.”
“Don’t let it go to your head,” Devin said. “You prick.”
“A child’s tale,” Bolton said in a low whisper.
“What?”
We sat together in the dining room. The rest of them were in the kitchen while Oscar cooked his famous steak tips.
Bolton held up his hands in the darkness. “It’s like something out of the Brothers Grimm. The two clowns, the cavernous van, the threat to innocence.”
I shrugged. “At the time, it was just scary.”
“Your father,” he said.
I watched fingers of ice congeal on the window.
“You know what I’m getting at,” he said.
I nodded. “He would have been the one who burned Rugglestone.”
“In sections,” Bolton said. “While the man screamed.”
The ice cracked and fragmented as streams of rain tunneled through it. Immediately, fresh translucent veins replaced it.
“Yes,” I said, remembering my father’s kiss that evening. “My father burned Rugglestone alive. In sections.”
“He was capable of that?”
“I told you, Agent Bolton, he was capable of anything.”
“But that?” Bolton said.
I remembered my father’s lips on my cheek, the rush of blood I’d felt in his chest as he pulled me to him, the love in his voice when he told me I’d made him proud.
Then I thought of the time he’d burned me with the iron, the smell of burning flesh that had risen from my abdomen and choked me as my father stared at me with a fury that bordered on ecstasy.
“Not only was he capable of it,” I said, “he probably enjoyed it.”
We were eating steak tips in the dining room when Erdham came in.
“Yes?” Bolton said.
Erdham handed him a photograph. “I thought you should see this.”
Bolton wiped his mouth and fingers with a napkin, held the photo up to the light.
“This is one of the ones found at Arujo’s place. Right?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Have you identified the people in the photograph?”
Erdham shook his head. “No, sir.”
“So why am I looking at it, Agent Erdham?”
Erdham looked at me and frowned. “It’s not so much the people, sir. Look where it was taken.”
Bolton squinted at the photo. “Yes?”
“Sir, if you—”
“Wait a minute.” Bolton dropped his napkin onto his plate.
“Yes, sir,” Erdham said and his body rippled.
Bolton looked at me. “This is your place.”
I put down my fork. “What’re you talking about?”
“This photo was taken on the front porch of your three-decker.”
“Of me or Patrick?” Angie said.
Bolton shook his head. “Of a woman and a little girl.”
“Grace,” I said.
32
I was the first one out of Angie’s house. I had a cellular phone to my ear as I stepped onto the porch and several government cars screeched up Howes.
“Grace?”
“Yeah?”
“You okay?” I slipped on some black ice and righted myself by grabbing the railing as Angie and Bolton came onto the porch next.
“What? You woke me up. I have to work at six. What time is it?”
“Ten. Sorry.”
“Can we talk in the morning?”
“No. No. I need you to stay on the line and check all your doors and windows.”
The cars slid to stops in front of the house.
“What? What’s all that noise?”
“Grace, check your doors and windows. Make sure they’re all locked.”
I made my way to the slick sidewalk. The trees above were heavy and shimmering with daggers of ice. The street and sidewalk were a black glaze.
“Patrick, I—”
“Do it now, Grace.”
I hopped in the back of the lead car, a dark blue Lincoln, and Angie sat beside me. Bolton sat up front and gave the driver Grace’s address.
“Go.” I slapped the driver’s headrest. “Go. Go.”
“Patrick,” Grace said, “what’s going on?”
“You check the doors?”
“I’m checking them now. Front door is locked. Cellar door is locked. Hang on, I’m heading to the back.”
“Car coming up on our right,” Angie said.
Our driver punched the gas as we shot through the intersection heading south and the car racing toward us from the east locked up his brakes on the ice and blared his horn and skidded across the intersection as the caravan of cars behind us jerked right and cruised around his back end.
“Back door’s locked,” Grace said. “I’m checking windows now.”
“Good.”
“You’re scaring the shit out of me.”
“I know. I’m sorry. The windows.”
“Front bedroom and living room, all locked. I’m going into Mae’s room. Locked, locked…”
“Mommy?”
“It’s okay, honey. Stay in bed. I’ll be right back.”
The Lincoln spun onto the 93 on-ramp doing at least sixty. The back wheels skipped over a bubble of ice or frozen slush and banged against the divider.
“I’m in Annabeth’s room,” Grace whispered. “Locked. Locked. Open.”
“Open?”
“Yeah. She left it open just a crack.”
“Shit.”
“Patrick, tell me what’s going on.”
“Close it, Grace. Close it.”
“I did. What do you think—”
“Where’s your gun?”
“My gun? I don’t own one. I hate guns.”
“A knife then.”
“What?”
“Get a knife, Grace. Jesus. Get a—”
Angie ripped the phone out of my hand and shushed me with a finger to her lips.
“Grace, it’s Ange. Listen. You may be in danger. We’re not sure. Just stay on the line with me and don’t move unless you’re sure there’s an intruder in there with you.”