“Nothing,” said Lucas. “This’ll be a simple one-for-one. The money for Ernest. I don’t want anything to happen to him.”
“Come on, then. You know where we’re at. You been here, after all.”
“I have.”
“Hurry up. Ernestine’s lookin a little frail. He hasn’t touched a bit of food. I’m afraid he’s gonna starve.”
“I’ll call you when I’m on the way,” said Lucas, struggling to steady his voice.
“You done captured my number now.”
“Yeah, I’ve got it.”
“We’ll be waitin on you, Spero. And make sure it’s you alone. You bring someone with you, I’ll spill that little nigger’s brains when you walk through the door.”
Lucas ended the call. He closed the tailgate, got into the Jeep, and dropped his phone on the passenger seat. He gripped the wheel. When the tightness in his chest went away and his breathing settled, he turned the Cherokee’s ignition and drove back toward D.C.
Lucas parked illegally on Clifton Street, got out of his Jeep, and jogged down 12th to the Lindsay residence, where he took the steps up to the porch. He knocked on the door, rang the bell, and fist-knocked so hard the frame shook. He looked in the living room window and saw no signs of life. Clearly Ernest’s mother and her boyfriend were not home.
He moved quickly to the porch of Lisa Weitzman’s row home. He was fairly certain she would be at work, but he knocked on her door anyway and got no response.
Spero went back to his vehicle and phoned his brother. Leo picked up on the third ring.
“What’s goin on, Spero?”
“Can you talk?”
“I’m in the teachers’ lounge.”
“Come outside, man. I’m on Clifton. ”
“Now?”
“I need to see you, Leo.”
Leo heard the desperation in Spero’s voice. “Is Mom all right?”
“Far as I know, she’s fine.”
“Gimme a minute.”
It didn’t take much more than that for Leo to emerge from the school, neatly dressed, his ID badge hanging out over his chest. He scanned Spero, standing by his Jeep in a no-parking zone, the kayak lashed atop it. Normally he would have said something smart, called him Jeremiah Johnson or “pilgrim,” but he saw the muscles bunched on Spero’s jawline.
“What’s wrong?”
“Did Ernest Lindsay come to school today?”
“Matter of fact, he wasn’t in class. That’s unusual for him. Why?”
“Could he be somewhere with his mom?”
“He told me that his mother and her boyfriend went on some kind of vacation. He didn’t mention that he was going with them. I asked you, why?”
Spero stared down at the asphalt. “There’s a problem.”
“Tell me what’s happening,” said Leo, trying to get his brother to meet his eyes. “ Look at me, man.”
“I messed up,” said Spero. “Ernest helped me out with something and now I think he’s in trouble.”
“You mean you pulled him into something. And you mean it’s serious. Don’t call it trouble when it’s more than that.”
“Leo, I-”
“This is about that job you took, right?”
“Yeah.”
“A job you took for money.”
“I work for money,” said Spero. “Same as you.”
“Bullshit.” Leo stepped forward, grabbed a handful of Spero’s T-shirt, and got close to his face. They had fought many times growing up, and neither of them was afraid to go. But Spero kept his arms at his side.
“Let go of me,” said Spero quietly.
“I don’t know what you do or why you do it. But don’t tell me we’re about the same thing. I put you up with one of my students, and now that boy’s in some kind of danger. You need to tell me right now how you’re gonna resolve it.”
“Let go.”
Leo loosened his grip and stepped back.
“He’ll be all right,” said Spero. “I promise you.”
“You should call the police.”
“I can’t. And I can’t tell you why.”
“Then what’re you going to do?”
“Pick him up from where he’s at. It’s a simple exchange.”
“Simple.”
“I’ve got this,” said Spero.
Leo nodded. “You better call me when it’s done.”
A SIMPLE exchange.
Lucas had lied to his brother. There would be nothing simple about what was going to happen.
He knew too much about these men, and so did Ernest. They would kill Lucas as soon as he gave them the money, and they would kill the boy. And if he managed to rescue Ernest, or if Ernest escaped, it could perhaps go somewhere that was much worse. They knew where Lucas lived. Larry Holley, a police officer, had access to all kinds of information, so it stood to reason that they could easily get to his mother and to Leo as well. They had killed Tavon and Edwin without thought. He couldn’t stand to think of what they might do to his family.
Lucas knew what had to be done. But it was anything but simple.
He stopped by his place to offload his kayak and gear, and to grab some cash. He phoned Bobby Waldron and drove out of the city once again.
Waldron lived with his folks in a vinyl-shingled rambler off upper Veirs Mill Road in Rockville, past the Twinbrook shopping strips. Waldron’s father was a master plumber and his mother was retired from the Montgomery County school system, where she had worked in various cafeterias. Their home was small and old but well maintained. Bobby kept the lawn mowed to within an inch of its life. What with his ever-dwindling security work, he didn’t have much else to do.
Lucas parked and went up to the front stoop, where an American flag hung above the door. He rang the bell. Presently, Rosemary Waldron appeared in the frame, a bottle of Miller High Life in hand.
“Spero,” she said. Rosemary was a good-time redhead in her late fifties, fifty pounds bad for her heart, with a gone-to-hell belly and the straight-out missiles that some women get in their middle age.
“Miss Rosemary,” said Lucas, stepping into the house as she moved aside. He was still in his swim trunks and T.
“Would you care for a beverage?”
“No, thanks. Is Bobby around?”
“He’s in the basement. C’mon.”
With Rosemary accompanying him, he walked through a living room that showcased framed photos of the Waldrons’ only son in dress and combat uniforms, and with his fellow soldiers in Afghanistan. Bobby’s medals and commendations, mostly for sharpshooting, were also framed. They moved around the furniture that crowded the room and came to a kitchen and an open door that led downstairs. Rosemary yelled into the space, “Spero’s here,” and motioned for him to go ahead.
Lucas took the wooden steps to the basement, finished and carpeted with knotty pine walls and a matching bar. Bobby Waldron got up off a sleeper couch that was set before a TV on a stand. He was playing the latest Madden on his Xbox. His video games were aligned in a cheap bookcase beside the television. The room was clean, orderly, cool, and dark, and smelled of cigarettes. Curtains were drawn on the small casement windows.
Waldron was shirtless and in skivvies, displaying his build and tiger-stripe tats. They shook hands.
“What do you think?” said Waldron, looking at his right biceps, then his left, flexing each.
“If you ever get drafted by the Cincinnati Bengals, they won’t have to issue you a uniform.”
“Har har.”
From upstairs, they heard Waldron’s mother’s voice. “Would you guys like some sandwiches?”
“No thanks, Mom!” shouted Waldron. To Lucas he said, “Let’s go to my room.”
They entered Waldron’s bedroom, which Lucas guessed had been framed out and finished by his father. It was just as orderly as the rec room. Waldron’s shoes were neatly lined up along one wall, his clothing, shirts and trousers, even T-shirts, on hangers in an open closet. There was a low-watt lamp on beside his bed, which was a simple mattress and box spring sitting frameless on the floor. There were no windows. Bobby closed the door and locked it.
He picked up an old JanSport day pack that sat against a wall. He unzipped the main compartment and pulled out a gun wrapped in an oiled rag. He unpeeled the fabric. In it was a Smith and Wesson five-shot Special. 38, blue steel, short nosed, with rubber grips. He handed it to Lucas butt out.