Burn had the money crammed into a duffel bag on the seat beside him. It was after ten, and he had heard nothing from the kidnapper. He slowed outside his house, thumbing the garage door opener. Burn eased the Jeep into the garage. He stepped down from the car and reached across for the bag of money.
Out of the corner of his eye Burn glimpsed the silhouette of a man as he ducked under the descending garage door. The door bumped as it hit the cement floor. The man was locked in with him.
CHAPTER 24
Instinctively, Burn swung the duffel bag. The man was fast. He grabbed the bag with his left hand, deflected it, and pushed Burn back against the car.
It was then, when a shaft of light from the small window above the garage door struck the man’s face, that Burn saw the livid scar and the empty eye socket. The watchman from the building site next door. In that moment everything made sense to Burn. The ugly freak had spied on them. He’d broken in and killed Mrs. Dollie and kidnapped Matt.
All the pent-up fear and rage exploded in Burn, and he went for the bastard’s throat. His fingertips had just brushed the watchman’s neck when he took a massive blow in the abdomen and fell to his knees, useless. He knew now that the watchman would take the money and disappear. And he would never see his son again. Then, as he was gasping for breath, he saw the watchman squat down in front of him, their faces almost level, the dark man looking at him like he was some alien life-form.
“Where is he?” Burn asked, his voice strangled.
“Who?”
“My son. What have you done with my son?”
The watchman shook his head. “I don’t got your son.”
Burn was sucking air, trying to get to his feet. The watchman was standing, too, helping him. Burn pushed his hands away. “Look, stop playing fucking games. Tell me what you want.”
“I don’t got your son. But I saw who do.”
Burn stared at him. The watchman continued slowly, the heavy accent grating on Burn’s ear. “I use to work next door, by the building site.”
“I know who you are.”
“That night, I seen him. He come and take your boy; then he come and shoot my dog. And me.”
Burn remembered arriving home the night Matt was taken. Seeing the watchman bleeding as he was led to the ambulance. “Who was it? Who took my son?”
“The fat cop.”
Burn knew then that the watchman was telling the truth. “I’m sorry.”
The watchman sh
“Please, come into the house. Tell me what happened.”
Burn took the duffel bag of money and walked to the stairs, his stomach still tender. The watchman wasn’t big, but he punched like a heavyweight.
They walked into the open-plan living room, all glass and light and Scandinavian design. The watchman looked around, taking it in. He was out of uniform, wore a pair of jeans meant for a bigger man, cinched in at the waist and rolled at the cuffs that fell onto a very tired pair of sneakers. His check shirt was frayed, short sleeved, showing plenty of prison artwork. He wore a cap, which he took off now that he was inside, standing holding it in his left hand, like it was something he’d been told to do. Burn found it hard not to stare at the dented, ravaged left side of his face.
Burn put the duffel bag down. “What’s your name?”
“Benny.”
“Just Benny?”
“Jus’ Benny is okay.”
“I’m Jack.”
“Ja, you tole me.”
Burn invited him to sit, which he did reluctantly, forward on the chair, his elbows on his knees, hands fidgeting with the cap. He told Burn what he had seen, expressionless, no emotion when he gave the details.
“He locked him in the trunk?”
“Ja.”
“But he was still alive?”
“He was, like, kicking. Ja.”
Burn battled to process this. His four-year-old son trying to fight off the huge cop. “You didn’t tell the police any of this?”
A smile touched the watchman’s scarred face. “Me and the cops don’t talk.” Then he was serious, his good eye fixed on Burn. “The fat cop. He tole you what he wants?”
“Money,” Burn said.
“And when you gonna give it to him?”
“When he calls me. Later today.”
“I wanna be there.”
“Why?”
“He kill my dog. I’m gonna kill him.” Like he was saying he took milk in his tea. No emphasis. No emotion. And no doubt that he meant it.
“Look, I understand. But I have to get my son back. Alive.”
“You think he gonna give him to you?”
“Yes. If I pay him.”
The watchman shook his head. “Man like that, he take your money, but maybe he don’t give you your son.”
Burn heard the scarred man give voice to his deepest fears. Right now the fat cop held all the cards.
“Ja. I find out about this cop. His, his moves, like. Where he operate and such. He’s dangerous.”
“Okay, I get that much,” Burn said. “You have an idea? A plan?”
“I go with you when you drop the cash. To watch your back, like.”
Burn nodded, taking this in. Trying to figure out whether he could trust this man and whether he would be risking or saving Matt’s life by getting the watchman involved.
The wind howled across the Flats, picking up sand and grit and firing it at Zondi like a small-bore shotgun. He felt it in his ears, up his nostrils, and it sneaked in and found his eyes behind the Diesel sunglasses. He kept his mouth shut and his hands in his suit pockets as he followed the uniformed sergeant through the rows of cars at the police pound.
Wrecked vehicles, endless minibus taxis, and a surprising number of luxury cars spread out across the yard. The cop carried a clipboard and seemed to know where he was going. He stopped and pointed. “There’s your car.”
A red BMW four-door with all the gangsta accessories: chopped suspension, fat tires with chrome mags, louvers, spoilers, and tinted windows. Zondi saw that the side window on the driver’s side was smashed and the trunk lid banged in the wind. The lock had been forced.
“Did it come in like this?”
“That’s right, sir.” Calling this black man sir stuck in the throat of the colored cop.
“That window too?”
“Yes.”
Zondi opened the trunk and looked inside. A spare tire and a jack. A couple of empty beer bottles and rags. An old newspaper and an empty brake fluid container. He walked around to the driver’s side and opened the door, looked inside.
“Who did you say this car was traced to?”
The sergeant consulted his clipboard. “A Mrs. Wessels of Table-view. She reported it stolen two years back.
