“Nothing is certain right now, Irene. When we’re able to locate him, we’ll let you know right away. But we don’t know where he is, not yet. Even if we learn where he’s being kept, we’ve only changed some of the dynamics of the situation — that’s not the same as freeing Frank.”
I was silent for a moment. “Why would they be so careful for weeks, and then suddenly grow careless?”
“I don’t know. After working in law enforcement for a time, I started to learn what every cop learns — that every criminal is bound to do something stupid sooner or later. I’ve been amazed by some of them.”
“I don’t know, Cassidy. It bothers me. They have to know that they’re wanted for capital offenses, but they told us who they are.” I swallowed hard and said, “Maybe they’re suicidal.”
“Maybe,” he agreed.
I wondered if I really did want him to be so honest with me. “What’s on the fax pages?” I asked.
“Here,” he said, and handed me the pages.
“You’ve read them?”
“No, just skimmed them. I’ll read them again more closely as you finish them.”
I pulled the pages out of the envelope, set aside the cover page. Two words formed the title of the pages that followed:
Father’s Day.
Father’s Day
THEIR FATHERS AWAKENED them at two-thirty that Saturday morning. It was still dark outside, and the air was cool. Sleepily the boys dressed in jeans and flannel shirts. The car was already packed, waiting in the driveway in front of Bret’s house. They were on their way by three. “We’ll beat the traffic,” Bret’s father said. “Besides, we have to get there while the fish are still hungry for breakfast.”
The boys had stayed up late the night before, giggling and telling ghost stories, too excited about the prospect of spending a week at Lake Isabella to fall asleep when they were supposed to. They would stay at the Neukirks’ cabin. The cabin was small, but most of the time would be spent at the lake, in the Ryans’ boat, which would be ready and waiting in a nearby storage area. Sam’s dad didn’t get much time off, but he had promised everyone the week of fishing. Sam had confided to Bret that he had been afraid his father would cancel at the last minute. Gene had worked very late that night, and even Julian had been looking at the clock a lot. But Gene showed up. He was tired and worn out, but ready to go fishing.
In recent months something had been bothering their fathers. Sam and Bret had worried over this, talked about it again and again. The boys still saw each other every day, but sometimes Gene just dropped Sam off and left for the hospital. That wasn’t like him. He usually wanted to see Julian. But whatever had come between the grown-ups seemed to be over, and now the men were doing things together again. The boys were especially happy, because the rift had scared them.
Now they were tired, and almost as soon as they were in the backseat of the Ryans’ car, they fell asleep. Julian drove.
They didn’t know how long they had been sleeping when they awakened again. It was still dark outside. The car had stopped. The inside of the car was bathed in red, pulsing light. “It’s all right, boys,” Julian said, seeing their worried looks in the rearview mirror. “I was just going a little fast and now I’m going to get a ticket.”
“Mom’s going to be mad!” Bret said.
“We don’t have to worry about that for a week, now, do we?” Julian said.
He rolled down his window. “Is there a problem, Officer?” he said, trying to shield his eyes. The policeman was shining a bright flashlight into his face.
The boys could not see the policeman’s face, because he didn’t lean over at all. But they saw the dark blue of his uniform. They heard him say, “Would you please step outside the vehicle, sir?”
Julian did what the policeman said to do. As he stepped out, though, the policeman hit him hard with the grip of the flashlight. He fell to the ground.
The boys screamed, and Gene shouted, “Julian!”
The front passenger door flew open. A man grabbed Gene and held a gun to his head. The man was dirty and had strange eyes. Later they would learn that his name was Christopher Powell.
“Oh, Christ, the cop…,” Gene murmured.
“That’s right,” Powell said. “You just met your boss. Now tell them kids to sit still and shut the fuck up or I’ll blow your fucking brains out!”
The boys stopped screaming before Gene had to say anything. They had never been so afraid.
“Chris,” the policeman said, “you are using foul language in front of children. And why are there children here, Chris?”
The policeman was facing away from them, but his voice carried. It was a calm voice, but there was a meanness in it. They could not see his face, but they saw his back as he bent over Julian’s prone form. The policeman was big, bigger than their fathers, bigger than Powell. He had silver hair — it showed beneath his cap, above the dark blue of his collar. They could see a word on the patch on his sleeve: Bakersfield.
It made Powell angry when the policeman asked him why they were there. The boys were watching Powell now and saw him look at the policeman as if he wanted to shoot him. “It’s a trick, boss. The doc here don’t think you’ll hurt him if kids are around.”
“Tape all three of them,” the policeman said, and they heard him move away.
Powell grinned. He reached into his jacket and shoved a roll of tape at Gene. It was duct tape, wide and silver. He made Gene tape the boys’ eyes. They were crying, and Powell made them wipe their faces before Gene put the tape over their eyes. “Not just once. Wrap it again and again.”
Gene obeyed. Next, at Powell’s command, their hands were taped behind their backs.
“Their mouths, too,” Powell said.
