Chapter 26
Clem
“Are you soft in the head, boy?”
I get hit with a stabbing pain when I attempt to open my eyes, and when I try to reach for my head, I discover my hands are tied.
What the hell?
Blinking a few times, I try again, wondering if I cracked my head on something when I went down. I do remember going down, and I’m pretty sure that was the impact of a Taser hitting me. What I don’t understand is why.
Sitting up, I take stock of my surroundings and I’m pretty sure this isn’t where I hit the dirt. They must’ve moved me.
We’re still outside; I can feel the cold crawling into my bones. The first person I see is Everett, he’s standing next to what I’m pretty sure is a compactor, with his back to me. He’s obscuring my view of Wally, whose voice I heard. I can see the back end of his golf cart, but not the man himself.
Who I can’t see is Remi. Where the hell is he?
“But Pa, Doyle said make the boy disappear.”
Disappear? And who the fuck is Doyle?
I shake my head to clear the cobwebs, not knowing if maybe that hit on the head left me confused, or I’m just in the dark on what is going on here.
“Yeah? And what do you suggest we do with this guy? Keep him as a fucking pet? Because we sure as shit can’t send him back where he came from now, can we?”
Suddenly Wally Shirk steps into view, leaning heavily on his cane as he looks past his son and locks eyes on me.
“No witnesses, Everett. That means him too,” he adds, without looking away.
His cold stare sends a fucking chill up my spine.
My head is scrambling for some explanation for what is happening here. I’ve been coming here off and on for years and even though the Shirks aren’t exactly the most welcoming, I would never have thought them dangerous in any way.
Apparently, I was very wrong.
“Who is Doyle?” is the first thing out of my mouth. Not, where is Remi, which is a question screaming through my mind, but am not asking. Maybe subconsciously I don’t want to know the answer, afraid to find out I’ve failed the boy, and failed his mother, who put her trust in me.
So instead, I look for anything that might explain what the hell we’ve walked into.
“My other son,” he answers without hesitation.
“The one his useless bitch of a mother never told me about when she took off. He found us though, didn’t he?
A smart boy, clearly inherited all the brains, and he understands the importance of a father in the family.
Not like this dumbass, who couldn’t find his way out of a goddamn wet paper bag.
The other one though, he’s got a good head on him. A teacher and an entrepreneur.”
Except he pronounces it entry-pu-ner, as a proud smile exposes his missing teeth.
Another son. A teacher. The dots quickly connect.
“Could’a knocked me over with a feather when you showed up here with that boy.
Same damn kid Doyle told numbnuts here to send a warning to.
” He points his gnarly index finger at me before he continues, “You made it real fucking easy for us to find him. All I had to do, while you two were out here poking around my yard, was send Everett off to pick up a couple of punks and head over to your shop to wait for you to get back so he could teach the kid a lesson.”
What are the odds? If I’d have been able to find the grille for Brant’s vintage Bronco at Lutton’s, we wouldn’t be in this situation. Or maybe I should say, I wouldn’t be in this situation, because Remi would likely still have been targeted.
Remi…
“What did you do with the boy?” I ask, suddenly feeling the need to know.
Instead of answering me, Wally directs his son.
“Put him with the kid.”
Does that mean he’s still alive?
Everett—who reminds me a little of Lurch of the Addams Family with his lumbering gait and almost blank facial expressions—walks over and grabs me under the arms, easily hoisting me to my unsteady feet.
Eager to find out what happened to Remi, I don’t resist when he starts dragging me around the side of the compactor. An old, badly damaged, navy-blue Crown Vic is occupying what can only be described as an oversized can crusher.
I’m not an idiot, I can see the plan now.
“It’s not going to work,” I call out. “People know we were coming here.”
“You never made it. Your truck may or may not be found at the bottom of a ravine along the highway, your bodies will never be found, and no one would be the wiser.”
I don’t think it’ll be that easy. For one, Tessa would never give up looking for her son. Never.
When Everett reaches out to open the trunk of the Crown Vic, I notice it isn’t latched.
“Shit,” he hisses behind me, when the lid comes up easily.
My knees buckle with relief.
The large baggage space is empty.
Tessa
“Quiet.”
Remi nods, his eyes wide with fear as he shivers against the cold.
Not much I can do about that right now.
I got here first, bypassing the storage place along the highway. Ignoring not only Mancuso’s instructions, but every little bit of law enforcement training I’ve ever had, I turned right up the driveway, stopping in front of the small building where I saw Clem’s truck parked.
No one came out, no one seemed to be around at all, so I grabbed my weapon and went to explore on foot.
I could barely resist yelling out his or Clem’s name, but I couldn’t risk drawing attention and potentially making an easy target of myself.
I had no way of knowing how close Mancuso was with his team, because I lost my connection to them partway through the mountains, so for the moment I was the only one coming to their rescue.
Luckily, the junkyard provides enough cover to mostly stay out of sight. I still had to move quietly, making sure I didn’t walk on something or bang into something that would make noise. Because the sound would carry in the eerie silence.
I heard the crunch of feet on gravel first and ducked behind a rusted vehicle, getting low to the ground as I poked my head around the broken taillight.
My heart almost leaped out of my chest when I spotted my son, his hands tied behind his back as, about twenty yards down, he awkwardly tried to duck into the same row of vehicles I was moving along.
Slower than I wanted to, I closed in behind him, hoping I could keep him from making a sound. At the last moment he must’ve sensed me, because he started to turn, just as I slipped my arm around him and covered his mouth.
Now, I press a finger from my free hand to my lips to enforce my whispered order, as I slowly release him.
The next moment he leans into me and shoves his face in my neck.
I softly shush him, rubbing a hand over his back as I reach for the multitool I always carry on me when on duty.
Then I kiss his forehead and motion for him to turn so I can cut off the zip ties that must be cutting off his circulation.
“They have Clem,” he mouths.
I immediately feel guilty for being relieved I have my child in one piece.
“Where?”
“I can show you.”
I shake my head sharply. No way in hell I’m letting him.
“You’re staying right here. Hear me?” I whisper in a soft voice.
He nods and points to where he came from.
“Two rows over. See that crusher?” He mimics my low volume.
I see the top of what looks like a large steel frame with hydraulic posts on either side, about the size of a truck trailer, maybe a bit taller. A machine that can easily crush thousands of pounds of steel. The implications hit me like a wave of icy cold water.
“Don’t move,” I remind him, taking his face in my hands and locking my eyes on his, before adding, “Please.”
I wait for his brief, acknowledging nod, and then I’m off, ducking low as I dart across the narrow path bisecting the rows of vehicles.
Then I hear yelling.
“Pa! The kid’s gone!”
“Well, dangit, boy! Go find him!”
Aiming for the voices, I make sure to stay covered while I try and get eyes on them.
The first thing I see is Clem, his head down as he throws himself into the midsection of a large man, easily half a foot taller.
In part, I’m sure, by surprise, the guy teeters back and seems to catch something with a foot, tripping him up.
He hits the ground hard, Clem sprawled on top of him.
That’s when I notice the old man approach them, a cane in one hand and a gun in the other, aimed at Clem’s head.
“FBI! Don’t move!”
My mouth is open, ready to call out, but I never get the chance, as Mancuso and two other agents step out of hiding from different directions, their weapons trained on the group.
Coming out of my cover, I rush up toward the scene, my eyes fixed on Clem, who is already sitting up.
“Stop right there, Androtti, or I swear to God, I’ll shoot you myself.”
Mancuso doesn’t even look at me when his words bring me to a screeching halt twenty feet or so behind him. His focus remains on the old man still holding the gun. I was so fixated on my guy; I would’ve run right into his line of fire.
Clem’s head swings around, his eyes searching and finding me.
I can read, “I’m sorry,” from his lips, and shake my head.
Mancuso was right, I almost sent a tense standoff into chaos.
I want to tell Clem it’s okay, that Remi is safe, but I don’t want to risk further distracting these agents from deescalating this precarious situation.
I’m afraid I’ve already gotten myself into hot enough water, both with the feds and also my own department.
“Wallace Shirk, I need you to drop that weapon and take five steps back,” Mancuso calls out.
Shirk, who may look about eighty and frail, wears a defiant look on his age-worn face as his eyes are blazing anger at the agent’s order.
There is a brief stare-off, where each man seems to be testing the other’s resolve, but after a few breathless moments, Shirk wisely decides to lower his weapon.
As soon as he steps away from the gun, an agent steps up behind him and snaps the cuffs on him.
“Clem, I need you to get to your feet and come toward me,” Mancuso instructs, turning his attention to the two men on the ground.
The moment Clem starts walking, the third agent moves in on the other man. I assume this is the son, the one Mrs. Dixon spoke about. He too is placed in handcuffs as Clem moves past Mancuso and aims straight for me.
I barely have a chance to holster my weapon before I’m wrapped in a giant bear hug.
“Remi…” he mumbles in my hair before lifting his head. “I need to find him.”
I grab on to his arm as he pulls away.
“He’s safe. He found me.”
For a moment he just stands there, looking at me, before abruptly bending over, his hands bracing on his knees as he takes in and blows out a deep breath.
“Thank fuck.”
“Let’s go get him,” I suggest. “He’s gotta be wondering what the hell is happening.”
“Where are you off to?” Mancuso calls after us when I grab Clem’s hand and pull him along.
“I’m getting my son,” I fire back.
The second Remi claps eyes on the man behind me, he’s on his feet and throws himself at Clem, who barely has a chance to brace for impact.
“I was so scared they’d hurt you, but you’re the one who told me about the latch in case I ever got locked in a trunk, so I figured…” my boy rambles against Clem’s shoulder.
“You did good, kid.”
Clem awkwardly pats Remi’s back, his voice hoarse with emotion.
“I’m so fucking proud of you.”
I was able to keep it together for the most part until now.
Cue the waterworks.