Whap!
Yeah, well, he'd been pretty goddamned disturbed at the time. Still was. And worst of all, he hadn't been able to tell the cop the real reason why. Couldn't report the theft of a book he didn't own, so he'd had to make up some bullshit story about a package being stolen and then describe the wrong kind of car. Promised he'd come over to Midtown North and fill out a report. Fat fucking chance of that.
Whap!
Took everything he had to keep from tearing into the cop and the gawkers who'd gathered around. Couldn't risk letting go. Any bad publicity from him would attach to the book and the whole Kicker movement. So he'd walked away as cool as could be.
Whap!
But that had been on the outside. Inside he'd been boiling, building a pressure that had nowhere to go.
Whap!
He'd needed a drink but knew if he went to a bar he'd only pick a fight with someone. So he'd joined this health club and got on the heavy bag. Didn't know shit about boxing but it just felt good to hit something.
Whap!
Hit the bag, don't hit people. Right. Except for John Tyleski. If Hank ever saw him again he didn't care where or when it was, he was gonna open a big can of whup-ass on the bastard. Wouldn't know what hit him.
Whap!
The book—the damn book had been put in his hands for a reason. It had come to him because of the Kicker Man. So weird to see that same figure inside. He thought he'd dreamed it up on his own, but there it was. He hadn't understood what the book had said about it. But that wasn't why the book was important.
It had answers—answers to questions he hadn't even thought of yet. He'd had only a short, short time with it but he sensed—no, somehow he knew—it contained knowledge important to the future, to his and Jeremy's, but most of all to the Plan.
If only he'd taken the time to go through it. But he'd been so busy, and he'd thought he'd have all the time in the world for it after this damn book tour was done.
And he needed that knowledge now more than ever. Because Jeremy had called this morning, so excited he could hardly speak because he thought Dawn was pregnant. All part of the Plan as their daddy had described it.
Whap!
But he hadn't described it enough. Not nearly enough. He'd got only so far and then he stopped coming around. Hank had looked for him and never found him. Dead and gone. Had to be. But had he left anything behind that would tell the rest of the story? Hank had found no trace.
Then the book had fallen into his hands and he'd known someone—Daddy, maybe?—was watching over him.
Now the book was gone.
Whap!
But he was gonna get it back. Oh, yes. One way or another he was gonna get it back.
9
Jack pulled to a double-parked stop outside the Tower Diner, wondering how he was going to check out Bolton's presence or absence.
He'd already been to Work. Not that he'd expected him there after last night's performance, but you never knew. He'd walked in, looked around, walked out. No Bolton.
He couldn't help but smile when he looked at one of the front windows of the diner and saw the man himself, sitting and sipping water.
Thank you, Jeremy Bolton.
Jack gunned the car and headed for Bolton's home. Christy's directions led him on a winding course but eventually he arrived in a brand-new upscale development of attached three-story townhouses in Rego Park. He cruised around, getting the lay of the land, and not liking the well-lit streets.
Bolton's house was number 119. It sat third from the end and Jack noticed that his row backed up to some woods.
That had potential.
He exited the development and explored some more. The woods weren't really woods. They proved to be little more than a hundred-loot-deep strip of wild oaks, elms, and underbrush that formed a buffer between the townhouses and a Woodhaven Boulevard strip mall on the far side.
Potential had become possibility.
He parked in front of a dojo and wandered over to the Italian restaurant/pizza joint that occupied the end unit. He pretended to read the posted menu while he scanned the vicinity. Assured that no one was about, he slipped around the side to the rear. No one there either, so he hopped the low retaining wall and made his way toward the townhouses.
10
Jeremy repressed a gag as he looked down at the plate before him. On a normal night he'd have his face all but buried in the pair of gravy-slathered country-fried steaks. They didn't serve anything like this in Creighton and he'd been sort of bingeing since he got out.
But tonight…
He swallowed hard against a wave of nausea. He'd been feeling a tad queasy all afternoon. It had started a little while after his lunch of extra spicy Buffalo wings at Work. The day shift there had heard about the fight and how one of the bouncers was pissed at him, but they didn't seem to care much. Could that be it? The wings? Or just some virus?
Who cared? All he knew was he was feeling crummy. It hadn't been too bad before, but the smell of the chicken-fried steaks seemed to crank up the nausea about ten notches.
He signaled to Dawn who came right over.
"Everything okay? You don't look so hot."
"I don't feel so hot, darlin. In fact, I'm feeling right poorly."
Dawn had started feeling better later this morning, but he'd been going downhill for a couple of hours now.
She frowned. "It's not the food, is it?"
"Naw. It kinda started before I came in." He pushed the plate away. "Why don't you give that to one of the Mexicans in the kitchen and bring me the check."
"You don't need to pay. 1 can say it was the food made you sick."
He smiled up at her. "Well, first off, I ain't touched it." You had to pay attention to details if you were going to lie. "And second, that ain't exactly honest now, is it."
"No, I guess not."
"Right. So you write me up the check and I'll call it an early night."
"Now I feel bad that I'm still working. If I'd just walked off I could take care of you."
"I don't need takin care of, darlin. When I get sick I'm like a dog—I just crawl under the porch or curl up in a dark corner till I get well. Now bring me that check. I need to be home."
Dawn made a face as she took the platter and headed back toward the kitchen.
Jeremy felt his gut cramp as it gurgled. Oh, no. Was he gonna have trouble on that end too?
He was gonna have to make pretty quick tracks back to his place.
11
Breaking in had been easy. Almost too easy. The place was wired with an alarm system, but Bolton hadn't activated it. Not only that, he'd left some windows open. Granted, they were on the top floor, but climbing atop a chair placed on the table on the deck outside the kitchen had put one of them within reach.
The only rough spot had come when Jack popped the screen and began to crawl in. The chair had toppled off the table as he'd levered himself up, creating a monster racket. He'd waited inside the window to see if any of the neighbors reacted. None had.
He couldn't go out the way he'd come in, but no biggie. He'd let himself out through a door. He replaced the screen and went to work.
With three floors to check, and a limited time to search, he had to make every minute count. The ground-floor garage was probably not the place to store anything personal; same for the kitchen and family room on the middle floor. Best to start with the three bedrooms up here.
The biggest bedroom was the only one with a bed—an unmade king—and so that was where he started. Holding a penlight in his mouth, he checked all the drawers, then pulled out the bottom drawers and checked in the space beneath. Next came the two closets—the one on the left held male clothing, the one on the right, male and female. He checked them high and low, going so far as to pat down the men's clothing.