Nobody Knows (16 page)

“I’m fine and it’s all done.” She patted the sofa cushion beside her. “Come, sit and watch the news with me.”

“I don’t think I have enough money. I’m going to the ATM,” Charles declared, suddenly remembering one of the hurricane preparation instructions.

“Not now, dear. You can go in the morning.”

“In the morning they might be out of money. I’ll be right back.”

Alone, Etta waited for the news to begin. She leaned forward at the opening story. That poor Mr. Sebastien. It was so sad.

But the follow-up report upset her even more. The hand that the cute boy had found on the beach yesterday morning belonged to a pornography actress.

Oh, my
, she thought.
Wait until I tell Charles
. Etta went to the kitchen to pour herself a drink, really questioning their decision to move down here.

Vincent paced up and down, keeping a darting watch between the elevator doors and his bike outside the lobby window. He had pedaled as fast as he could from Gideon’s to the hotel, and his face was flushed and grimy.

He didn’t know what else to do. He didn’t want to go to his mother. She would be furious with him, he was sure of it. If he had turned over the ring in the first place, none of this would have happened.

The child was terrified.

He had gone too far this time, he thought, the anxiety mushrooming in his thin chest. Was Gideon all right? He should’ve stopped and called an ambulance or something, but he’d just ridden as fast and hard as he could to get away, coming here to the lady reporter from big-time television. She’d know what to do far better than his mother would.

Trust your instincts
, Cassie had said this morning. He hoped his instincts were right in coming here.

As the elevator doors slid open, Vincent suddenly
remembered.
Mark
. He was supposed to be watching Mark.

THE 7-ELEVEN
had a telephone book, and the killer flipped through its worn pages. Barnes, Bates, Baxter . . . Bayler. He ripped out the page and closed the phone book.

Though he had pulled apart the old guy’s ramshackle house, he hadn’t found what he was looking for. Maybe the kid had the ring. The kid on the news who was identified as Vincent Bayler. And maybe that same kid had been the one hiding in the bathroom.

Suddenly ravenous, he grabbed a blueberry muffin from the display case, poured himself a cherry Slurpee, and made his way to the checkout counter. He drew out his wallet to pay.

“How do I get to Calle de Peru?” he asked, pulling at his expertly applied beard.

“
CALM DOWN
. Calm down, Vincent,” urged Cassie. “The first thing we have to do is call the police.”

He didn’t even try to talk her out of it. He knew she was right. Tears stung his eyes as he thought of poor Gideon, imagining his friend lying on the kitchen floor. He pictured a pool of blood surrounding a dead body, just like on television. But this wasn’t make-believe, or even a bad dream.

Vincent gave Cassie Gideon’s street address and listened as she made the call on the lobby phone. He couldn’t imagine his mother talking to the police as
matter-of-factly and calmly as Cassie did. As she held the phone to her ear, she mimed writing on a piece of paper and pointed to the front desk. Vincent went over and retrieved a pen and pad from the receptionist.

The reporter in Cassie scribbled down the name of the sheriff’s deputy she spoke to and made a notation of the time. Next she picked up the house phone and punched a three-digit number. “Leroy, it’s Cassie. I want to use the crew car.”

SHE WAS
already over an hour late, and Wendy couldn’t wait any longer. The boss had called three times, finally threatening that if she didn’t get her tail in there, she could look for another job. “Mark, honey, I’m sure Vincent will be home in a few minutes.” She tried to keep her voice calm, although she wanted to wring Vincent’s neck. “You’ll be okay by yourself for just a little while, won’t you?”

The child looked up from his half-eaten plate of macaroni and cheese and nodded solemnly.

“Okay, sweetheart. I’ll lock the doors, and don’t open them unless you are sure it’s Vincent. I’ll call you from work, but if anyone else calls, don’t tell them you’re here alone. Just tell them that your mother is in the shower and she’ll call back when she gets out. Promise?”

“Promise, Mom.”

Wendy gathered her purse and freshly washed apron and kissed Mark on top of the head. “Be a good boy.”

“I will, Mommy.”

Wendy pulled the front door firmly behind her and
rattled the knob to make sure it was locked. Then she took off at a trot in the direction of The Old Salty Dog.

She didn’t notice the polished car that was parked just down the street.

CASSIE AND
Vincent loaded the bike into the back of the Jeep.

“My mother is going to kill me. I’m supposed to be watching my little brother while she goes to work. The last time she brought Mark to work she almost lost her job. He was coughing all over the place and grossing out the customers.”

“Maybe you should call her.” Cassie fished her cell phone out of her bag.

He didn’t want to call, but he took the phone and counted the four rings until Mark picked up. “Mark. It’s me, Vincent. Let me talk to Mom.”

“She’s in the shower. She’ll call you back,” the five-year-old answered, true to his promise.

“Okay, good,” Vincent answered with relief. “Tell her I’m on my way home. I’ll be there in about ten minutes.”

MARK WASN’T
sure exactly how long ten minutes was, but it must have been fast because there was a knock on the door just a little while after he had hung up the phone.

“Vincent?” he called through the door.

“Police. Please, open the door.”

His mother had told him that he should trust the police
and always do what they said. The only experience Mark had had with the police was that nice man who came when he had the bad coughing attack. He wondered if it was the same policeman now.

His small hands fumbled with the button on the doorknob.

“I’ll come in with you, if you want,” Cassie offered as they pulled up in front of the Baylers’ house.

“Yeah, that would be good.” Vincent didn’t like admitting it, but after what had happened at Gideon’s, there was no way he wanted to be left alone in his house to watch his little brother. He led the way up the walk. The front door was unlocked. What was the matter with Mark, anyway? He should know better. Mom was always lecturing them about keeping the door locked when she was gone.

“Mark, I’m home,” called Vincent as he and Cassie entered the tiny living room. Cassie took in the tired surroundings, comparing them with her beautiful home in Alexandria. Hannah didn’t know how good she had it.

The door off the living room was ajar, cool air from the bedroom escaping.

“Mark, you dope, you’re supposed to keep the door closed,” said Vincent with exasperation as he walked into the bedroom. The television was on. A half-empty
glass of apple juice sat beside a coloring book and crayons spread on the floor. The beds were unmade and empty.

Vincent turned and muttered, “He must be in the bathroom.” But only the sound of the faucet dripping into the worn tub filled the vacant room.

“Oh brother, I’m in big trouble now. My mother must have taken him to work with her. The last time she had to do that, I couldn’t sit down for a week.”

Hannah had never had a hand raised in her direction, Cassie thought as she looked at Vincent’s worried face. Maybe Cassie hadn’t been there as much as many mothers were, but Hannah was never left by herself, and when she was there Cassie had tried to make up for it, making sure the child had everything. Maybe that was the mistake. Too many things, not enough uninterrupted time together. Letting sullen moods and tantrums go unchallenged. Making excuses for her daughter’s behavior because of her own guilt about being away from home so much. “I’m sure your mother will understand when you explain everything.”

“I doubt it,” Vincent said glumly.

Cassie ached to put her arms around the boy, but she held back. “Would you like me to go with you and help explain things to her?”

Vincent’s expression turned hopeful. “You’d do that?”

“Sure. Come on. Let’s go.”

“You don’t look like a policeman.”

“Not all policemen wear uniforms.”

Mark digested the information.

“This doesn’t look like a police car.”

“Well, it is.”

“Does it have one of those lights?”

“No. It’s an undercover car.”

Mark looked out the window. “Hey, you said my mom wanted you to take me to her work,” protested the little boy. “You were supposed to turn way back there.”

The driver reached down and pushed the button that locked all the doors.

He sure was glad he had such an understanding wife. Danny Gregg had heard other guys on the force moaning that their wives complained when they had to work overtime. But not Colleen. They had already opened a college savings account for Robbie, and she looked at any extra money that came their way as an opportunity to make another deposit toward their son’s education. They were both on the same team, she always told him. Though she wanted the family to be together whenever possible, Colleen would do her part and mind the home front while Danny was out earning a living.

There was going to be a good deal of overtime in the days ahead, thought Danny as he sped up to the curb. With the hurricane approaching, there would be a lot to do. The sheriff’s department would be directing the evacuations that looked increasingly likely.

Deputy Gregg was the first to arrive at the scene, but he knew backup would be coming any second. He radioed his location to the desk. Then he got out of the truck and walked, hand on his holstered weapon,
around the perimeter of the house. He could hear a siren growing closer.

He knocked forcefully on the screen door and called, “Police.” Waiting just a few seconds, he pulled at the handle and walked through the porch and into the kitchen. A chair was turned on its side. All the cabinets and drawers were hanging open.

Danny heard a low moan. Turning in the direction of the sound, he saw the old man lying on the floor and hurried to him. White hair, a weathered face, now gray beneath its ruddy tan. Danny recognized the fisherman who’d been with the Bayler kid at the beach the day before.

“It’s all right, old fella. It’s going to be all right.”

Blood oozed onto the cracked tiles as Danny heard the ambulance pull into the driveway outside. The old man’s hand reached out, and Danny grabbed it, feeling the sticky blood.

“Vincent,” came the whisper. The old man’s last.

Cassie recognized the frazzled blonde who had served her lunch that afternoon. Wendy was taking a dinner order, scribbling on a waitress’s pad, smiling at her customers. The pleasant expression turned to one of alarm when she noticed her son standing on the deck. “What are you doing here? You’re supposed to be home with Mark.”

“I thought he was with you,” said Vincent.

“No, I left Mark at home, waiting for you. You’re in big trouble, buster. You were supposed to be home two hours ago.” Wendy looked over Vincent’s shoulder and saw her boss standing in the doorway. She bent down and hissed, “I’ll take care of you later, young man. Now get home and take care of your brother!”

“But, Mom,” Vincent pleaded.

“Don’t ‘but Mom’ me. Get going.” Wendy gave her son’s arm a push.

Cassie intervened. “Mrs. Bayler, my name is Cassie Sheridan.”

Wendy looked at her. “Do I know you?”

“Well, actually, I was here for lunch this afternoon.”

“Oh yeah, that’s right.” With a quizzical expression on her face, Wendy looked from Cassie to her son.

“I’m a correspondent with KEY News. I met Vincent while I was working a story today,” Cassie explained.

“I hope he didn’t make a pest of himself.”

“No. Not at all. But, to make a long story short, I just drove him home to your house, and, I’m sorry, but his brother wasn’t there.”

“Of course he’s there. I left him there less than a half hour ago,” Wendy said shrilly, fright beginning to register on her face.

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Bayler, I truly am. But Mark isn’t there.”

Fortunately, the street was deserted. No one out to notice the crying little boy sitting in the car beside him.

He clicked the automatic door opener, pulled the car directly into the attached garage beneath the condo, and cut the motor. “Come on. Out we go.”

“No. I want to go home. I want my mommy.” The child began to cough.

“I have Coke inside,” the driver coaxed. “Come on in and have some pop. It will make you feel better.”

The boy’s hacking increased.

“What’s the matter with you? You have a cold?”

“No,” he managed to get out. “I need a treatment.”

“What kind of a treatment?”

“My pounder.”

“What the hell is that?”

“You have to pound on my chest, or I won’t be able to breathe.”

“Jesus.”

Consumed by his coughing, Mark let himself be guided from the car, through the garage, and into the
condominium. The man pulled the boy by the arm, leading him to a small room. Metal hurricane shades were rolled shut on the windows. The man switched on a lamp.

“Now you sit down and rest,” he said, indicating a studio couch. I’ll go get you that Coke.”

Mark heard a lock slide across the door in the hallway outside. Alternately, he whimpered and coughed while he looked around the room. The couch, a television set, some circus posters on the wall, and a dressing table with a mirror with lights around it.

On the top of the dressing table were bottles and tubes, brushes and powder puffs like Mommy’s. At the thought of Mommy, Mark began to sob.

For the second time in as many days, Deputy Gregg heard the address. “Child reported missing at 603 Calle de Peru.”

The detectives going over the ransacked house heard the call, too. “Go on, Danny,” said one of them with resignation. “We’ll finish up here.”