Mitch nodded, not trusting himself to speak.
“Dad used to call it his Wall of Honor.”
“Knock it down,” Mitch said. “Knock that crap down and break it.”
“All of it?” Quentin asked, staring from frame to frame.
“Why not?” Mitch told him. “Your father never did anything for you, did he?”
“No, he didn’t,” Quentin agreed, reaching for the first piece, a framed diploma from the University of Arizona. “Why the hell shouldn’t I?”
Raising the diploma over his head, Quentin smashed it to pieces in a spray of glass in the middle of the floor. While Quentin worked his way down the wall, Mitch took the Detective of the Year Award off the wall. He studied it for a moment with his fingers itching to do the job, but that wouldn’t have worked. Quentin’s prints wouldn’t have been on the frame.
“Do this one next,” Mitch said, handing it over. Even as he watched the piece smash to pieces on the tiled floor, he gave himself full credit and gloated over the victory. His was the triumph of rational thought over base emotions.
Had Quentin Walker’s mental faculties been a little less impaired, he might have noticed that from the moment they climbed inside his newly purchased Bronco, Mitch Johnson had been wearing latex gloves. Quentin wasn’t.
He didn’t notice; didn’t even question it. To Mitch’s way of thinking, that made all the difference.
As the phrase spun through her mind, she suddenly realized that the words to Nana
She remembered Mr. Vega’s instant fury the moment she had disobeyed him. Obviously whatever drug he had given her—both earlier on the mountain and later at his house—was something that produced compliance, that made her do whatever he said. If Lani was going to save herself—and it was unlikely anyone else would—then she had to make sure that he didn’t give her any more of it. She would have to watch for a chance to get away. If the opportunity presented itself, she would be able to take advantage of it only so long as she remained clear- headed.
That was the moment when she heard the tailgate of the Subaru swing open. A moment later she heard someone fiddling with the outside of the crate, as though they were opening a padlock hasp. Lani had been lying with the tiny people-hair medallion clutched in her hand, gleaning as much comfort as she could from the tightly woven coils. Now, though, before Vega opened the door on the crate, she stuffed the tiny basket back into the pocket of her jeans. Then she forced herself to lie still, closing her eyes and slowing her breathing. By the time the door swung open, Lani Walker appeared to be sound asleep.
“Come on, sweetheart, rise and shine,” Vega said, grabbing her by the ankle and dragging her once again across the rough, splintery floor of the crate. “Wake up. We’re going for another little ride.”
Yanked upright, Lani found herself standing between the Subaru and an idling sport utility vehicle, an old Bronco. A sleeping man was slumped against the rider’s side door. “Come on around to the other side,” Vega ordered. “Can you walk on your own, or am I going to have to carry you?”
Lani, planning on acting dazed, didn’t have to fake stumbling. Her legs felt rubbery beneath her—rubbery and strangely disconnected from her brain and will. When she staggered and almost fell, Vega grabbed her hair, hard, and held her up with that. The pull was vicious enough that tears came to her eyes, but it also helped clear her head. In a moment of quiet, she heard a readily identifiable squeak and realized that the fist knotted in her hair was encased in a rubber glove.
Desperate to get away, she looked around. They were standing in one corner of a large gravel parking lot. There were no other people visible anywhere. The only other vehicles were parked next to the darkened hulk of a building half a block away—too far to try running there for help.
After a moment, Vega slammed shut the tailgate of the Subaru, twisting the key to lock it once more. Lani considered screaming, but just as they started around the back of the Bronco, with Lani’s hair still knotted painfully in Vega’s gloved fist, another train rumbled past on the track that bordered the edge of the lot. With all that noise, there was no point in attempting to scream for help, not even out in the open. Over the racket of the train, no one would have heard her anyway.
Vega wrenched open the driver’s door to the Bronco and shoved her inside. “There you go,” he said. “You sit in the middle. That way I’ll be able to keep an eye on you.”
The unexpected push sent her piling across the bench seat and rammed the tender flesh of her already throbbing breast against the steering wheel of the car. Another intense jolt of pain shot through her body. She managed to suppress a shriek. Even so, a yelp of pain escaped her lips. On the far side of the car, the sleeping man stirred and looked at her.
“Hey, what’s this?” he mumbled sleepily. “What’s going on?”
Quentin! What was he doing here?
“It’s too soon, Quentin,” Vega said. “Go back to sleep. I’ll let you know when it’s time to wake up.”
With his head dropping back to his chin, Quentin did as he was told.
The odor of beer was thick in the car, and Quentin was snoring softly. A hundred questions whirled through Lani’s mind, but she asked none of them. Asking questions or showing too much interest in what was going on around her was probably an invitation to another drink of whatever Vega had given her earlier. Maybe he had fed some of the same stuff to Quentin.
“I suppose you’re a little surprised to see him, aren’t you?” Vega said, climbing in behind Lani and shifting the Bronco into gear. “We’re just having a little family reunion tonight. Your brother helped me drop off a few presents for your parents. Now the three of us are going for a ride. We have some errands to run.”
Vega’s earlier ugly mood seemed to have lifted. He was in high spirits, whistling under his breath as he drove out of the lot onto Grant and from there onto eastbound I-10. Whatever had happened during the interval while Lani had been locked in the car seemed to have left him feeling particularly happy.
