Fixing Perfect (22 page)

“He lies to everybody,” Jake said.

Mr. Bird's arm flew out, and he slapped Jake across the face, so hard that Jake fell. He put his hands over his head and lay on the concrete floor. Mr. Bird kicked him, not hard, but like he wanted Jake to get out of the way. It made the new boy cry out and shrink away from Mr. Bird. Mr. Bird ignored that, just pushed him toward Becca's mattress. “You can sit down over there, next to Becca.”

The new boy stumbled under Mr. Bird's hand and shuffled a little closer to Becca. He looked like he didn't want to sit next to her any more than she wanted him to. What if he found the hole? But he wouldn't tell Mr. Bird, would he? Not when Mr. Bird was being so mean to him.

After a minute Jake pushed himself up, and he glared up at Mr. Bird. “It's true. Look how you lied to Becca. She thought you were a good guy.”

“Shut up, or I'll shut you up myself.” Mr. Bird grabbed Jake's shirt and jerked him up. Some of the buttons ripped off when he threw Jake back on his mattress, and his dirty shirt gaped open over his chest. “Shut up and you might get lucky.”

Becca's thumb made those slurpy sounds everyone hated, and she tried to make herself be quiet, but she was too scared. She had to suck, hard.

Mr. Bird looked at her, and she shrank back against the wall. She hoped she was in front of the hole. He was mad enough already, and she didn't want him to throw her like he'd thrown Jake. She didn't want him to throw Jake again, either. Or do something worse. When she thought about what Mr. Bird might do to them for making that bad hole, her eyes got watery, and she sniffled.

Mr. Bird took a deep breath. When he smiled, Becca wanted to run away. She wanted her mom, right now, to take care of her.

“This is Kerry,” Mr. Bird said. “He's going to be here for a couple hours, that's all. And after that, we're going to do your hair. OK? You're going to be ready for me, aren't you?”

Becca nodded. Her stomach wanted to throw up, but since Mr. Bird had forgotten breakfast again, and lunch, too, there wasn't anything to come up. Still, it was hard to swallow the sour in the back of her throat.

“Hey, don't look so scared. I brought you guys some dinner.” He moved back to the door, slammed it, and a minute later came back with a plastic bag.

For once it wasn't sandwiches. Jake grabbed both thick white boxes, and he handed one to Becca. His expression told her not to move off the mattress. He sat next to her, and they dug into the spaghetti with their fingers. Becca looked sideways at Jake. One whole side of his face was red where Mr. Bird had hit him.

The new kid pointed at the boxes. “You told Robin you were gonna eat that. I heard you.”

With his mouth full, Jake said, “He lied. Just like he lies all the time.”

Mr. Bird took a step toward Jake. “I told you to shut up, kid.”

“Why should I?” Jake let his almost empty box tumble to the floor as he jumped up. “You don't even know what my name is. You just want to kill me, like you killed Lehanie and Simon. Like you're gonna kill Becca and this kid.”

Mr. Bird's eyebrows went up and his eyes were wide. “I'm going to
fix
Kerry.” He made it sound like it was a good thing. Becca used to believe when Mr. Bird said good things about what he did, but not anymore.

Kerry glowered. “I'm not broke.”

Mr. Bird laughed. “Look at your leg, Kerry, and your arm. Don't you want them to work right?”

Becca looked at Kerry. His right arm curled up toward his chest, and it looked skinnier than his other one. His right leg looked smaller, too. He had a funny shoe on, with a really thick bottom, and poles stuck in it. The tops of the poles disappeared under his loose sweat pants. Maybe it was his shoes that made him limp a little.

Kerry looked like he might start crying again. “They work OK.”

“Not as well as this kid's.” Mr. Bird pointed at Jake. “Don't you want to be able to walk like him?”

Jake got even closer to Mr. Bird and Kerry. Maybe he wanted Mr. Bird to hit him again. He sure acted like it. It scared Becca to watch him. “What are you gonna do? Kill me and take my leg and my arm and sew it onto him? You gonna make a Frankenstein?”

This time when Mr. Bird hit him, Jake didn't get back up. Instead, he lay on the concrete floor and shook.

Becca thought he was crying. She wanted to go to him, but she didn't. She remembered. The most important thing was to hide the hole from Mr. Bird. But it was really hard to see Jake cry.

“Anyway, Kerry.” Mr. Bird patted Kerry's shoulder, and his voice changed, went nice like he used to talk to Becca, like he still did, when he was talking about her hair. “I'm going to fix you. I'm going to make you perfect. You'll be just as smart as everyone else—”

“I already am!” Kerry shouted. His voice echoed off the concrete walls.

Mr. Bird put his arm around Kerry's shoulder. “Naw, but you will be. Don't worry. After I fix you, I'm going to fix these kids, and I'm going to fix Robin.”

“Robin has bad legs.” Kerry looked up, and big tears rolled down his face. “She has other stuff too, but she's my friend. I like her the way she is.”

“Yeah, but I'm going to fix her.” Mr. Bird laughed. He looked like he didn't even see them anymore. Like he couldn't see how Kerry was crying, or Jake cringing on the floor, or how Becca was trying to hide the hole in the wall. Like he wasn't Mr. Bird anymore. Like he'd never been Mr. Bird at all.

 



 

Robin paced the living room as well as a person on crutches could. Three steps toward the front door, shove a cushion out of her way, three steps back to the kitchen doorway.

Her grandmother sat at the kitchen table, the old, overhead light spilling a square of yellow across the table and her gray hair. She bent over her Bible, eyes closed, hands clasped.

Robin turned around. She didn't want to disturb her grandmother's prayer. She ought to be praying herself. But the tension in her limbs threatened to shake her apart, and she couldn't settle herself enough to concentrate. Every step was a
please, God
, every turn was a desperate attempt to escape thoughts of what might be happening to Kerry.

The killer
couldn't
kill Kerry. Whoever the killer was, Donovan or Danny, he
knew
him.

It wasn't Danny. Danny loved his team.

Donovan?

It didn't matter. The killer could, and would, do anything horrible. He'd already proved that.

And now Sam was out there, without sanction of the police, without someone to vouch for where he was, searching just as hard as everyone else, and under suspicion, as well.

Macias had already cleared him for this kidnapping, but who, outside of the police themselves, would know?

“Robin.” Grams' gentle hands massaged her shoulders. “God's got it in control.”

“I know. I just think we need to remind Him how much we love Kerry. How much we need him.” She finally was able to sit on the edge of the couch and rest her crutches next to her. “Grams, why? Kerry has never done anything to anybody.”

“You think those other kids did?”

“No. That's not what I mean.” Robin hung her head. “I just wish everyone was safe.”

“Don't we all?” Grams picked up her Bible and held it to her chest. “I'm heading up to bed. You going to try to sleep?”

“I don't think I can.”

Grams shrugged. “You should try, anyway. Pray if you can't. And call me if you need me.”

“All right.” Robin looked up. “Thanks, Grams.”

“Anytime, kiddo.” Her grandmother made her way up the stairs, pulling herself one step at a time, and the usual guilt shook Robin. Grams was getting old and having to climb the stairs so many times a day didn't do her knees any good. If Robin were whole, if her legs worked right, she'd be the one using the upstairs bedroom, and Grams would be down here where it was easier.

But that wasn't Robin's fault or choice. Bemoaning it didn't help her grandmother. Robin was just trying to distract herself and making herself feel worse instead.

And she didn't know where Sam was.

He'd run out when Mrs. Wright called, saying something about Donovan's house. When Detective Macias showed up a few minutes later, Robin and Grams were able to give him Sam's alibi, but he scoffed when Robin told him Sam's theory.

“Donovan's got alibis,” he'd said. Then he'd left, calling into his radio that the suspect was cleared and to start a city-wide search for Kerry.

He'd left Robin with no idea what anyone was doing, where Sam was, how much trouble he was in. She leaned back and closed her eyes. Grams puttering around her room, and the creak of her bed springs, were the only sounds Robin heard inside the house. Outside, the wind rustled in the leaves, and whined around the eaves. Perfect Halloween weather, only a week away, but who was going to let their children go out that night?

She sank onto the couch and clasped a pillow to her chest, shoulders shaking, holding in the tears so Grams wouldn't have to come back down.

 



 

Donovan checked the lock on the storeroom door twice, and found himself going back to it again.
No. Don't do that. That's giving in to the demons. Letting them control you again. Don't do it. You have a job to do.

And he'd better get started.

What had he planned for Kerry? He walked to pull aside one of the front curtains, peered out, let it drop. Kerry. What about Kerry?

He needed fixing. Jake had an interesting idea, using his limbs to fix Kerry's. Too bad he knew that was just a story, not something real. Although they managed organ transplants...

Donovan shook his head. No. He had to concentrate on the job he had to do. Set up the new picture. Get the cameras to Robin's house. Get the kids there. How was he going to do that?

Better to get Robin up to his house.

He paced to the kitchen and back to the living room, where he picked up one of the stuffed mermaids. She loved fantasy. She loved pretty things. She created pretty things, just like he did. She didn't know all they had in common.

But everything came clear. She didn't understand. Yet. She would, as soon as he explained. She'd understand, and she'd finally get how she needed to cooperate to make everything perfect.

He just needed to explain.

 



 

After he fetched his half-charged cell phone from home, not even checking the lock on the door he slammed behind him, Sam trudged up the hill. He kept his face bent against the wind, peering at the roadway in the dark. He heard voices calling, first one person clearing one area, then another just a few houses away, but he saw no one. The police probably had to wait for search warrants on any home they thought likely, but they wouldn't go after Donovan.

Macias had made that clear.

So it was up to Sam.

He trotted up several streets, slowing slightly as the incline steepened and he reached the farther limits of the town. He couldn't be this out of shape, not even after three days sitting in the jail, only able to do pushups and sedentary exercises. Fatigue and fear, pure and simple, stole his breath. He stopped a moment, closed his eyes, and asked God to guide him, help him, hold him up. Renewed, he started once again to run.

Beyond the last line of homes and hotels lay only chaparral scrub, and he'd searched there too many times already. He didn't believe anyone would find Kerry out in the brush. He was somewhere close to Donovan's house. Sam was sure.

Robin had given Sam Donovan's address, along with his phone number, which she'd gotten from the paperwork at the co-op. He lived in one of the houses farthest from the harbor—not a big seller if you were looking at real estate values, but when you wanted a convenient place to hide something—or someone—away, perfect.

Donovan was all about perfect.

It was a typical, narrow, two-story house, tired white in the frail streetlights and mist, and a bit run down. The grass had gone brown and sere, and weeds rather than flowers filled the beds in the front. The downstairs lights were on, and through one window, Sam saw the flicker of blue.

He edged between Donovan's house and the one just to the north. Neither had a backyard, just a narrow track between the buildings and a concrete retaining wall that held back a fall of rocks and the stubby wilderness that characterized Catalina Island. He prayed the neighbors didn't have a dog.

Few houses on the island originally had garages, but Donovan's had something like one slapped onto the side. A windowless room, maybe eight feet by ten, was wedged between the retaining wall and what Sam thought must be the kitchen. It had no outside entrance.

Perfect if you wanted to imprison a couple of kids.

He walked around the room, studying the foundation. It had no crawl space. The plaster and lathe walls seemed to grow from the bare dirt. He wasn't going to get inside from where he was. He'd have to go through the house.

But first he had to get Donovan out.

He had few options. He might make a disturbance outside, but not only would that likely bring the neighbors, it would only last a few minutes.

He pulled out his cell phone and called up Donovan's number.

“Hello?”

He took a breath for clarity. He had to play this right. He wasn't going to get another chance. “Hey, Donovan. It's Sam. Wanted to know if you'd heard the news?”

“I know you're out. You told me a couple hours ago.”

“That, right. No, that's not what I'm talking about. I meant about Kerry.”

“What about him?” But there was enough hesitation in Donovan's voice, and something else—a sort of satisfaction—that let Sam know he'd called the right man.