Vincent flicked a glance at Byrne. He knew that Byrne wasn't too keen on jokes at the expense of the hearing impaired. Byrne kept his cool.
'One last time, while we're still friends,' Vincent said. 'Did two female detectives from Philadelphia stop here today, looking for a farmhouse? Yes or no?'
'Don't know nothin' about it, sport,' Kyle said. 'Have a nice night.'
Vincent laughed, which at the moment was actually scarier than his growl. He ran a hand through his hair, over his jaw. He looked around the lobby area. His eyes landed on something that caught his interest.
'Kevin,' he said.
'What?'
Vincent pointed to a nearby trash can. Byrne looked.
There, on top of a pair a greasy Mopar boxes, sat a business card with the familiar badge logo-raised black type, white card stock. It belonged to Detective Jessica Balzano, Philadelphia Police Department, Homicide Division.
Vincent spun on his heels. Kyle was still standing by the counter, watching. But his magazine was now on the floor. When Kyle realized they weren't leaving he made a move to reach beneath the counter.
At that moment, Kevin Byrne saw something incredible.
Vincent Balzano ran across the room, leapt over the counter, and grabbed the blond man by the throat, slamming him back into a display rack. Oil filters, air filters, and spark plugs flew.
All of this seemed to take place in under a second. Vincent was a blur.
In one smooth move, with his left hand wrapped tightly around Kyle's throat, Vincent drew his weapon and aimed it at a dirt-streaked curtain hanging in the doorway to what was probably a back room. The fabric looked as if it had at one time been a shower curtain, although Byrne doubted that Kyle was too familiar with that concept. The point was, someone was standing behind the curtain. Byrne had seen him too.
'Step out here,' Vincent yelled.
Nothing. No movement. Vincent pointed his weapon at the ceiling. He fired a round. The blast was ear- shattering. He pointed the gun back at the curtain.
'Now!'
A few seconds later a man stepped out of the back room, hands out to his sides. He was Kyle's identical twin. His nametag read KEITH.
'Detective?' Vincent asked.
'I'm on him,' Byrne replied. He looked at Keith, which was enough. The man was petrified. There was no need for Byrne to draw his weapon. Yet.
Vincent turned his attention fully to Kyle. 'Now, you've got about two fuckin' seconds to start talking, Jethro.' He put his weapon to Kyle's forehead. 'No. Make that one second.'
'I don't know what you're-'
'Look into my eyes and tell me I'm not crazy.' Vincent tightened his grip on Kyle's throat. The man was turning olive green. 'Go ahead.'
All things considered, choking a man while expecting him to talk was probably not the best interrogation technique. But right about now Vincent Balzano was not considering all things. Just one.
Vincent shifted his weight and brought Kyle down to the concrete, slamming the air from his lungs. He put a knee into the man's groin.
'I see your lips moving, but I'm not hearing anything.' Vincent eased off on the man's throat. Slightly. 'Talk. Now.'
'They… they were here,' Kyle said.
'When?'
'About noon.'
'Where did they go?'
'I… I don't know.'
Vincent pressed the barrel of his weapon into Kyle's left eye.
'Wait! I really don't know I don't know I don't know!'
Vincent took a deep calming breath. It didn't seem to help. 'When they left, which way did they go?'
'South,' Kyle managed.
'What's down there?'
'Doug's. Maybe they went there.'
'What the fuck is Doug's?'
'Duh-diner.'
Vincent withdrew his weapon. 'Thuh-thanks, Kyle.'
Five minutes later the two detectives drove south. But not before they had searched every square inch of Double K Auto. There were no other signs that Jessica and Nicci had spent time there.
82
Roland could wait no longer. He pulled on his gloves, his knit cap. He did not look forward to walking blindly through the woods in a snowstorm, but he had no choice. He glanced at the fuel gauge. The van had been running, heater on, since they had stopped. They were down to less than one-eighth of a tank.
'Wait here,' Roland said. 'I'm going to look for Sean. I won't be long.'
Charles studied him with deep fear in his eyes. Roland had seen it many times before. He took his hand.
'I will be back,' he said. 'I promise.'
Roland stepped out of the van, shut the door. A sheet of snow slid from the top of the vehicle, dusting his shoulders. He brushed himself off, glanced through the window, waved to Charles. Charles waved back.
Roland made his way down the lane.
The trees seemed to close ranks. Roland had been walking for nearly five minutes. He did not find the bridge Sean had spoken of, or much else. He turned around a few times, adrift in the miasma of snow. He'd lost his bearings.
'Sean?' he said.
Silence. Just the empty white forest.
'Sean!'
There was no reply. The sound was muffled by the falling snow, deadened by the trees, swallowed by the dusk. Roland decided to head back. He was not dressed properly for this, and this was not his world. He would return to the van, and wait there for Sean. He glanced down. The blowing snow had all but obscured his own footprints. He turned, walked as quickly as he could in the direction from which he had come. Or so he believed.
As he trudged back, the wind suddenly picked up. Roland turned his back to the gust, covered his face with his scarf, waited out the blast. When it ebbed, he looked up and saw through a narrow clearing in the trees. There was a stone farmhouse, and in the distance, perhaps a quarter mile beyond, a large trellis and what looked like a tableau of amusement-park displays.
My eyes must be playing tricks, he thought.
Roland turned toward the house and suddenly sensed noise and movement to his left-a snapping sound, soft, unlike branches underfoot, more like fabric rippling in the wind. Roland wheeled around. He saw nothing. Then he heard another sound, this time closer. He shone his light through the trees and caught a dark silhouette shifting side to side in the illumination, something partially obscured by the pines twenty yards ahead. In the falling snow it was impossible to tell what it was.
Was it an animal? A sign of some sort?
A person?
As Roland slowly approached, the object came into focus. It was not a person, or a sign. It was Sean's coat. Sean's coat was hanging from a tree, powdered with fresh snow. His scarf and gloves lay at the base.
Sean was nowhere to be seen.
