“Aw, c’mon,” Joey said. “You’re out in a patrol car anyway. You can just cruise down this way.”
“Hang on a minute and I’ll ask.”
“Since when does the great Rourke McKnight ask for permission, anyway?” Joey’s tone turned belligerent. “Usually you just help yourself.” He paused, then added, “Know what? I don’t need a ride after all. Never mind.”
“Joe—”
“I’ll see you later,” he said, and then he was gone.
Rourke scowled at the phone receiver as he hung up. The exchange left him unsettled. He entertained a brief impulse to drop by Jenny’s house to give her a heads-up, but decided against it. Joey wanted to surprise her, and there was no way Rourke was going to ruin that. Okay, he thought. He’d see about getting away to find Joey and bring him home.
Within seconds, however, a call came in and he was ordered to do a knock-and-talk at the Round Table Arms apartments. A neighbor had complained of loud noises from a family fight, a depressingly common occurrence. However, when he checked the dispatch and saw that it was the Taylor household, he shifted into gear. Grady Taylor was a mean son of a bitch when he drank, and there were kids in the house. Rourke hated guys who beat their wives and kids, hated them with a fury that made him far more dangerous than any drunk swinging his fists.
He sped through the driving rain, the cruiser fishtailing on the wet, oily pavement. He reported to dispatch and headed up a flight of iron-frame stairs. Sure enough, the argument was still going on—a man’s gruff voice and a teenage boy’s whiny, belligerent tones. He rapped on the door with his nightstick. The door jerked open.
“Is there a problem, Officer?” Grady Taylor didn’t look the part of a violent man. He was overweight, but his business suit fit well, his tie undone and casually draped around his shoulders. He didn’t fool Rourke, though. Rourke spotted the violence in his glittering eyes and in the way his hair was slightly mussed and the raw spots on the knuckles of his right hand.
“I guess I need to be asking you that,” Rourke said, looking past Taylor. In the background stood a lanky teenage boy in hip-hop garb—oversize sweatshirt, sagging pants, chains draped from his pockets. The kid was wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. When he saw Rourke checking him out, he turned away as though ashamed.
“No problem here, Officer,” Taylor said amicably. “My boy and I were just having a little disagreement. Teenagers, you know…”
Shit. Did he actually expect Rourke to nod in agreement? Yeah, teenagers. “Looks like the disagreement was with your fist,” he said.
“It’s none of your damn business,” Taylor spat. “Jesus, what are you, twelve years old? You got no idea what it takes to raise a kid, to keep him safe—”
“He’s not safe here,” Rourke said, then motioned to the boy. “Tell you what. You come with me, and we’ll take a little ride, give you both a chance to cool off.”
The kid didn’t need any more encouragement than that. He grabbed a big coat and walked toward the door, stuffing his hands in the sleeves.
“Don’t you dare set foot outside this house.” Taylor’s voice lashed like a bullwhip. “I swear to God, I’ll—”
“You’ll what?” In a blaze of white-hot fury, Rourke brought the nightstick up and across the big man’s throat, pinning him back against the door. “You’ll what, you lousy son of a bitch?”
Taylor’s eyes snapped with rage and his fists came up. Rourke felt himself pushed to the very edge of his control. He pressed harder, the nightstick against the guy’s throat. Just try me, you fat fuck, he thought. Just push me a little harder….
Taylor’s face turned dark red as he struggled for breath.
“Dad,” said the kid. “Hey, Dad.”
The voice cut through Rourke’s fury and he stepped back, releasing the pressure. Damn, he’d almost… Taylor sagged against the door frame. Rourke turned to the kid, who seemed to have forgotten his bleeding lip. A bright ribbon of blood trickled down his chin and he shook with fright—not at his father, but at Rourke.
“Let’s go,” Rourke said to him. “I’ll give you a lift to a friend or relative’s house, okay? It’ll be all right.”
The kid was quiet as they went outside into the battering rain and got into the cruiser. Rourke reported in, then handed the kid a wad of Kleenex for his mouth. He kept glancing up at the apartment, a worried expression on his face. Kids were incredibly loyal to their monster fathers. The boy offered the address of a friend, said he could stay there for the night. Then he rode in sullen silence.
He’s scared of me, Rourke thought.
After dropping the boy off, he’d meant to go pick up Joey, but just as he was pulling away, the radio monitor sounded. Late-model Mustang versus freight train, at the railroad crossing outside of town, just a few blocks from Rourke’s location. Emergency vehicles en route.
Rourke had a premonition before he reached the scene. He felt it like a ball of ice in his gut. Somehow he knew even before he saw the hectic, unnatural glare of emergency lights, the mangled car, the smoke and sparks flying into the night air as rescue workers extracted the victim. Even before he fought his way through the tangle of EMTs and equipment and looked at the victim, into eyes that were glazed with confusion, beyond pain. Joey was being strapped to a narrow backboard, his face chalk white.
Rourke’s heart sank like a rock. Joey. He was in such a hurry, he’d borrowed or rented a car and raced home to Jenny. Rourke was a fool for thinking Joey would wait for the train. That was the stupid thing. He should have known and, job or not, should have dropped everything and driven
