Now
He didn’t say anything about me being on the phone when I called, so maybe he doesn’t know. Or maybe he doesn’t care, knowing it will be over in an hour one way or another. Might Rita’s mother call the police about the strange phone call she got? Could the police put two and two together somehow and figure it was me? But why would she bother? She just thinks I’m some anonymous jerk who called.
Rita. What did Derek do to you?
An accident, her mother said.
I can’t think about that right now. I’ve got to focus on rescuing Devon. If he can hurt Rita, he’s capable of following through on his threat to Devon.
Outside, I find myself in a backyard. I see the garage, but first I head around to the front to get my bearings.
A neighborhood, just like he said. Houses similar in style, one right after another. I see two people sitting on their front porch a few houses down. No one else seems to be outside. In every way, things appear perfectly normal. Serene.
It’s still warm, but the sun is low. Dusk will be coming soon.
I’ve got to get moving.
The garage door opens easily. The car is there. The keys in the ignition. The clock inside actually says it’s 6:55. Okay, I have an extra five minutes. Matt’s party starts in about an hour. Is he still expecting me to show up with Rita to tell my story? Does he know what happened to her? Maybe she’s in the hospital. Wait a minute. If the police are looking for me, is it possible that the police think I hurt Rita?
Concentrate. In the glove compartment, I find the tape recorder and pull it out. I stare at the gun also sitting in there and leave it inside.
The urge is to start the car, peel out of there. Rush, hurry, drive fast. But what would that accomplish? I can’t just go running into the police station and into Detective Fyfe’s office. Even if they don’t think it was me who hurt Rita, there’ll be questions. Answering them will take time. And do I really expect Detective Fyfe to tell me, even if we’re alone, that they planted the gun under Caleb Brannick’s body? What if the truth is, he didn’t? What if Derek is wrong? How will he react? What will he do to Devon?
Time seems to be ticking away inside my head like a bomb, but I have to slow down. I have to force myself to think.
One hour. Why just an hour? Surely he knows it’s impossible. Maybe he’s planned all along to get back at me for killing his brother by hurting mine. But he wants to play with me first. Torture me. Make me think I have a chance when really I don’t.
I’ll start with one arm. I’ll break it in several places.
Oh God. I close my eyes, concentrate.
Maybe I could bluff him. Wait till just before a quarter to nine to make it more believable, then tell him I’ve got the recording. Just so he’ll tell me where he’s holding Devon.
But he’s probably thought of that and will insist on listening to some of the recording on the phone first.
I could try faking the recording. Do it myself, pretending to be Detective Fyfe. It might be enough to fool him over the phone. Get him to tell me where Devon is.
And I’ve got a gun. Once I’m there, I’ll make him let Devon go. Shoot him if I have to.
But he’s bound to have a weapon himself. There’s too much of a chance of Devon getting hurt. Even killed.
God, poor Devon. He must be so scared. Counting on me to save him.
I’m your big brother. I will always be here to protect you.
Why did he give me a gun?
In case you need an edge to get Detective Fyfe to talk.
Does he really expect me to pull a gun on a police detective? Even if doing so got him to talk, how would I know he was telling me the truth? With a gun on him, he might just be telling me what he thinks I want to hear.
Maybe there’s more to why he gave me a gun. But what?
I can’t think about that right now. He’s given me a chance, as small as it is. I’ve got to take it.
Focus.
You said you’d do anything for your brother.
Focus!
I’m giving you the chance to be a man of your word.
When the plan suddenly comes to me, my eyes fly open. Could it work? I think it through. Maybe. It’s all I have. It has to.
The clock on the car’s dashboard reads 7:00. Exactly one hour.
I need to get out of here before neighbors begin to notice the garage door is open to a house where the owners are supposed to be out of state. I start the car and begin to back out slowly. No need to attract attention by speeding out of here.
I turn onto the street, facing north. I notice a neighbor across the street stepping out of his front door, looking at me curiously. The garage door is still open. I’m not going to bother getting out to close it. I head off down the street. Looking in the rearview mirror, I see the neighbor crossing the street to the house I just came from.
To follow through on my plan, I need to make a stop. A mile down the road and to the right, I pull into a Walmart. The clock reads 7:05. I hurry in. Fortunately, I find what I’m looking for near the front of the store. Tiny blessings.
I pull out of the parking lot at 7:13. Before doing so, I took the card Detective Fyfe gave me the night we spoke outside the police station out of my wallet. His personal cell phone number is on the back. I punch in the numbers.
It starts to ring. What if he doesn’t answer? Stop thinking like that. He has to answer.
Four rings. Five. Six.
His voice mail’s going to kick in any minute.
Seven.
“Bob Fyfe.”
Not a recording.
“Detective Fyfe? It’s Chris Russo.”
“Chris, where are you? We’ve been looking for you.”
I hear the urgency in his voice and imagine him signaling people around him.
“I didn’t hurt Rita. I didn’t—”
“We know.”
“Is she okay?”
“She’s in the hospital with a fairly serious concussion. She was unconscious for a while, but she woke up a little while ago. They’re going to keep an eye on her, but her prognosis is good.”
I take a breath. “I need to see you. Just you. Right away. Otherwise, he’s going to hurt Devon.”
“You mean Derek Brannick?”
Hearing the name surprises me, and I falter, my planned speech flying out of my head.
Detective Fyfe jumps into the silence. “A number of people saw him talking to you at the game last Monday,” he says. “Somebody we talked to after you went missing actually got him in a photo he was taking of the boys on the field, which helped us identify him. But truth is, we considered him right away. Haven’t been able to find him. His parole officer didn’t even know where he was. So we figured it had to be him that took you and Devon.”
“You knew about him being out?” I hear myself say. “And you didn’t warn me?”
“We were keeping an eye on him.”
“You did a great job of that, didn’t you?”
“Chris—”
“I’m gonna be in front of the Memorial Park sign in two minutes,” I tell him, getting back on track. “I’ll wait five. No more. If you don’t show up, or I see other police in the area, I’ll leave, figure something else out.”
“You don’t have to—”
“I only have until eight o’clock. So just do what I say. Please.”
“Chris, listen—”
I cut him off by hanging up. Slip the cell phone inside my jacket.
Either he’s going to be there or he’s not.
Before moving, I pull the gun from the glove compartment and slide it into my jacket.
The clock reads 7:22.